


Wonder Woman:  Hell Hath no Fury

by flayrith



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Heroine's Journey, Multi, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-04-24 06:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 94,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14349447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flayrith/pseuds/flayrith
Summary: Diana of Themyscira, Daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, defeated Ares, the God of War, by recognizing her greatest strength.  But at what cost?  Even as she fulfilled her sacred duty and removed the influence of evil among mankind, she witnessed the source of that strength sacrificed, leaving her with a hollow victory and empty purpose, despite the surrounding cheers of men freed from their chains.   For survivors of that final battle on a secret German airfield, it was not only the end of their suffering; a day of miracles; but the day when mankind first saw the savior that some came to call, the Wonder Woman.





	1. Chapter 1

  **1**

Ares no longer holds the will of good men under his power. Diana, struggling to balance the intensity of strengths she did not know she possessed with the disorientation suffered from the final battle, sought out a sign, any sign, that by slaying the God of War she had fulfilled her destiny; had freed mankind from the influence of corruption; and had ended what Steve had called 'The War to end all Wars'. Through the first rays of sunlight glinting off the piles of rubble strewn across the airfield; the remnants of buildings destroyed, lives lost, and the armored war machine that Ares had tempted her to use as a weapon of murder, Diana could see the forms of soldiers who had dropped their guns, abandoned their fortifications, and stood, as her, in wonder and confusion. While the fighting had ended and the humanity of understanding and compassion rejected the horrors of madness and enmity, in her shock Diana could not confront the truth of her loss. Her thoughts returned to the moments, only minutes past yet heavy as though time had ceased, as Steve told her his final words; words she struggled to hear; her attempt to bear his burden even as she bore the fate of mankind:

“Diana, I have to go, I have to go.”

“What are you saying? Whatever it is I can do it, let me do it.”

“This has to be me. I can save today; you can save the world.”

“What are you saying?”

“I love you.”

Though only among the world of men a few short days, Diana had found one man that brought to her life a joy, an understanding, and a completeness she had never before known. The stories of mankind told to her by her teachers and mother; of their selfishness and greed and cruelty; she had seen with her own eyes to be true; but she had also witnessed friendship and empathy and sacrifice. The magnitude that Diana had found awakened in herself; the power that allowed her, through Ares' absence of or even his ability to understand the potential of good; to overcome the God of War in his final defeat:

“It is futile to think you can win. Give up, Diana. Finally you see mankind did this, not me. Just like your Captain Trevor, gone and left you nothing. Pathetic.”

“You're wrong about them. They're everything you say they are, but so much more.”

“They don't deserve your protection.”

Above flew the massive German attack plane. With every second it moved higher and higher, further away from those below – from Diana – even as she struggled to keep Steve in her thoughts, Steve in her life. Until it suddenly disappeared in a flash of explosion, leaving nothing but a shower of slowly fading embers.

“It's not about deserve, it's about what you believe. And I believe in love.”

“Goodbye, brother.”

Despite his unbalanced rage, Diana realized Ares was right. Right that Steve was gone, and left her alone. Right that the sacrifice of another had once again saved her, just as Antiope had given her life, far away on that sunlit day when she stepped between Diana and a German bullet. Right in that no matter what Diana embodied; no matter what actions she took toward the good of mankind; how devotedly she believed; or even in discovering the depths of her love – she was powerless to determine the choices of any individual.

“Inside every one of them is darkness and light; a choice each of them must choose for themselves – that no hero can take from them.”

 

* * *

 

As he fought the German bomber to gain altitude as quickly as possible – the largest, and most difficult plane he had ever flown – Steve Trevor thought back on his actions.

“Not exactly my life flashing before my eyes, but I guess there's not much of a life to look back on.”

It had only been these past few months when he believed he had done anything worthwhile; a purpose, a mission, that drove him past his earlier – could he even say, _younger_ failings – or maybe he had only recognized the poor choices of a largely wasted life. Only a few days before had he found Diana; or rather, Diana had found him; and Steve began to feel once again what he thought he had put far behind him; feelings he thought he'd lost: The chance; the _risk_ ; of opening himself to another. Something he promised himself he would never do again.

If only they had more time. But war is not about time. War is about abandoning time as loss and confusion and hopelessness and morals and pain and hunger and death and.... _everything_ , merges into a fog that some men can never escape. It's ironic that even as he wished for more time, Steve realized the single remembrance he had left Diana was his watch. A watch that would continue to mark the time they would never have together. That could only remind her, whenever she looked at it, not of what they had but what they lost. What a gift. At least he had the chance to tell her how he felt.

Behind him sat thousands of pounds of bombs, each loaded with some ungodly chemical concoction designed by Isabel Maru to result in the greatest suffering and death possible. Glancing back, Steve focused on the primitive timer attached to one of the bomb racks and, just as Sami had said, the mechanism was set to detonate at any moment. Steve couldn't take the risk of a miscalculation, either by himself or whomever had set the apparatus. Besides, he'd always believed in holding his own fate in his own hands. Better to trigger the explosion than wait for the inevitable. “There's no risk if you know what you're getting into.” Thinking back, he remembered the times he'd lived by that motto. And how well had that worked out for him? He drew his pistol and searched his mind for the happy thoughts he wanted to he his last. Of his mother...; of Madeline...; of James...; or even the sweetest thoughts of all, those of Keri. But those were memories too difficult to resolve in the last seconds of life. Better to recall what needed no reconciliation.....Of Charlie singing, then drinking, then fighting, then singing some more. Of the first time he met Sami, who tried to sell him a motorcycle he didn't own. Of Chief, a man who should have nothing but always seemed to be able to come up with anything. Of Diana. Steve smiled. Diana. He turned, aimed his Colt, closed his eyes, silently breathed three short words, and fired. There was no explosion.

At first he thought the situation had become even worse. Not only was he riding a bomber full of deadly chemicals, but due to a malfunction in the timer or the detonator or even his own pistol, now the situation was completely out of his control. Maybe the bombs would only detonate upon impact, meaning he would have to pilot a crash so violent the resulting fire would ensure destruction of the chemicals; and in an area secluded enough to be clear of any city or village or encampment that would be affected. Or if a faulty timer _did_ randomly activate, triggering only a portion of the bombs – all it would take is one - in mid-air, he would certainly be killed by either the detonation or the gas, leaving the remainder to tumble to earth creating a field of death that would extend for miles. No, this was not a good situation at all. But as Steve hunted for options, he noticed a small greyish object that appeared to be hanging in mid air between himself and the bomb load. Or rather, whatever it was wasn't _hanging_ as much as slowly moving in a straight line from his position in the pilot seat, toward the bombs. And that sound – almost like a rush of escaping air – had he aimed so poorly he'd shot a hole in the side of the plane? No, it was more a gentle whistling, almost bird-like sound. Something like the measured 'who-whoing' of an owl.

“Maybe I've already copped it....” and he was already dead, or dying, and these illusions were how his mind was trying to remain connected to the world. He'd seen others struggling for life in the same way. Others who in their final moments had begun to talk with loved ones, or seen long-dead family members appear from nowhere to accompany them on their final journey. But nothing Steve had experienced had prepared him for the woman who stood before him now. A woman clothed in a gown of gleaming white, spear in hand, who was herself surrounded by a lustrous glow that not only illuminated her face and body in brilliant silver, but affirmed the focus of her unsettling blue-grey eyes even as it brightened the interior of the airplane as if it were spotlighted from the inside.

“Are you an...angel?”

“I am Athena, daughter of Zeus, she who guides those who seek wisdom, protects those who fight for a just cause, and from me springs the courage of true love. I have recognized your sacrifice and seen the love in your heart for Diana, daughter of Hippolyta, as well as her love for you.”

“Uh,...ok...”

“You are to come with me.”

As Steve reached to take the outstretched hand of the goddess; and in the split-second before the German airplane faded around him, Steve saw the bullet, which had progressed slowly but evenly toward the explosives, strike its target causing a violent, although leisurely, detonation of the bomb-load and bomber; taking the floor out from under him but finding it quickly replaced with a surface of finely-veined, polished white marble under a brilliant blue sky.

“Welcome, Steve Trevor, to the home of the Gods. You will remain here until Hermes takes you to the Underworld to be judged.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

 

“Have a piece of cake, dear. It certainly doesn't lessen the pain, but it does give us the fortitude to endure. Just remember one day you and Steve will be together again, in heaven among the angels in God's Paradise.”

Diana had never considered what her life would be after Ares was defeated, freeing mankind from his influence, and men could once again be good and just and fair. She had never thought of where she would go, or what she would do, or of what her mother meant when, at her departure from Themyscira just a few weeks ago, she had told Diana “If you go, you may never return.”. Ever since a child, she recalled, she had not _thought_ about her actions; she had simply _acted_ and either dealt with the consequences – which were usually nothing more than a scraped knee and short lecture from her mother; or, more often, she had managed to contend with whatever challenge or obstacle had appeared in her path. Of course, that was how a child would approach life, always with home and family and reassurance to run back to. And she was no longer a child. And her home was an unknown distance; but far, far away. And among those surrounding her in this 'London', none did she fully understand, even as they struggled to understand her.

 Diana considered the squares of spongy cake Etta had generously sliced and set before her on a tiny dish decorated with laced edging. She was not accustomed to such 'sweets' and only picked at the pink and yellow cheques.

“Themyscira IS paradise, created by the gods. Those who died never re-appeared, and we did not live among anything called 'angels'.”

“Diana, I don't want to be harsh but you must realize the stories you were told by your mother were only to entertain a young girl. It's like the Three Bears or Flying Faeries or Mermaids, just silly tales to help a child drift off to sleep. While I'm certain Themiss.., Themiscry.., _your country_ is a beautiful place, it's not Heaven.”

After the War had ended Etta Candy, Steve's secretary and assistant, had offered Diana a place to stay until she 'got on her feet'. As Diana was standing at the time she didn't know what Etta could have been referring to, but she assumed it had something to do with a place to rest and sleep and a roof over your head to keep out the rain. Because it never seemed to stop raining in London. Possibly Etta was trying to say Diana could sleep with her until Diana found her way, and continued her journey, on her feet. It was an odd way these people spoke, and how little they seemed to understand.

“Bears are on Themyscira. At times we follow them to share the best honey-hives. And sea nymphs live among the waves. I have never seen a ' _faerie'_ but I have been guided by their light in the darkness and felt the whisper of their wings on my skin.”

“You're missing the point, dear. When people die, if they are good people, they go to Heaven to live with God and never have to again suffer or feel pain or be without. They spend all their time glorifying God and waiting for their loved ones to join them. If they are bad people, they go to the other place... Tea, dear?”

“So all these people in 'heaven' are just waiting for more people to die? That doesn't sound like anything to glorify. And what is this 'other place'?”

“You know....down below...everlasting fire and brimstone and all that....eternal punishment.”

Dianas host seemed to be describing the realm of Tartarus, the place of death so far removed from the world of the living that only those condemned to its depths; the most wicked who are not judged worthy of a greater place in the Underworld; fully know its extent or the punishments concealed within its void. Surely not every man who commits the slightest error is sentenced to this fate?

Etta set down the pot of tea, learned across the table toward Diana and in a soft monotone, far more serious than was her usual temperament and appearing as if she were trying to keep others from overhearing a secret - even though only she and her guest were in the room - stated:

“ _Hell_ , sweetie. Where the Devil and his demons torture you forever, to punish you for your sins. But we don't want to think of that. Steve isn't there – he was a good man.”

“Steve once told me he was a liar and a thief and a murderer. That is not a good man.”

Having been relieved of her mysterious burden, Etta regained her usual charm and replied:

“Oh, all that doesn't count. He was doing it for a good cause.”

The childish simplicity of this approach – the good go to 'heaven' as the blessed; the bad are committed to the eternal suffering of 'hell'; was beyond reason, Diana resolved. There is no one that does not at some time make a poor choice; or hurt another, no matter how innocently; or regret an action they would not do again. Not herself; not her mother; nor her aunts, nor for that matter not the gods themselves. To suffer forever due to an unattainable goal is madness. Diana would never fully understand this England and the beliefs of its men.

“Thank you, Etta, for the encouragement. Steve and I did not have the time we needed to learn much about each other, but I know he would not have taken any actions without a just cause. There is so much joy in London now, but I'm afraid I feel only loss.”

“I know, dear, but it will lessen in time. All things pass in time, they say. Chin up!”

“Yes, I will not allow my chin to droop. I promised I would meet Sami at midday; he tells me he has remembrances of Steve that he wants to share with me. Then I believe I will visit what is called a ' _museum_ '; I heard it is filled with objects that may remind me of home. As you see, I am trying to be on my feet.”

“Of course, take as long you as need. There is always a place for you here.”

 

* * *

 

It was not a simple journey for Diana to meet Sami at the cafe across from his hotel near Regents Park. She was unfamiliar with the city itself; had no money or desire to ride in one of the several taxis that ran about the streets like so many ants; and was completely untrusting and wary of the 'tube' system of which everyone was so fond. The greatest burden, however, lay not in the path itself but in the route that forced her to cross from Ettas' building near the docks where she and Steve had begun their journey only weeks before; through the city center; to reach Regents Park. Normally Diana would have enjoyed such a walk, but passing by the infinite amount of destruction the city had suffered from the German air machines brought back memories she would rather not re-live.

Indiscriminate in their damage, the 'air-ships' left some buildings untouched while others, only across the street or at times even sharing the same wall, were piles of rubble. Aid workers continued to dig at some of the sites, and Diana was torn between intervening, revealing her abilities; or passing by, voicing silent prayers to Eris and Harmonia for pity on whatever souls remained- or were lost - among the devastation. She remembered Steve, and Sami, and even Charlie telling her that they could not save everyone....that at times some may be lost for the benefit of others....and that choices must be made. A lesson she was learning all to well.

Despite a few wrong turns; one dead end; passing by two rows of shops she was certain she had passed once before; and a rather unusual experience, while crossing a large park-like area, where girls in black and crimson gowns had insisted on referring to her as 'professor'; Diana found the sign of the 'Jolly Hare' and thankfully saw Sami sitting at an outdoor table. While sharing the table with no one, Diana noted across from him an empty chair and setting of tea and sandwiches, thoughtfully placed for her; even as Sami was in spirited conversation with the two women and one man at the table to his left:

“...and you see my predicament. My family is awaiting my return, and I am due to depart in only a few short days. However, due to the unfortunate financial restrictions exacted by the War, all funds in my accounts have been placed on hold for, I am sorry to say, an unforeseen length of time. As I mentioned, something to do with the settlement of overseas war debts, I do not know, I am not a political person. However I spoke just yesterday with two highly-placed officials with the Bank of London who tell me that with the sponsorship of an eminently regarded London citizen such as yourselves, certain essential funds will be released from which, of course, I will gladly compensate you for your time and trouble.”

“But Sami, if you have no money, how do you live at this hotel? Perhaps you have found a way to work for your room?”

“OH, Diana, I didn't notice your arrival.” Instantly Sami stood to offer a chair to his companion. “Please meet my new acquaintances - or should I say, _friends_ \- who have through the kindness of their hearts offered to....”

Before he could introduce Diana to his new 'friends', all three had risen from their table; the two women already on their way toward the cafe's door. The man alone remained, hat and coat in place, to respond to Samis enthusiasm:

“Unfortunately, it all sounds a bit dodgy. Anyone with a companion such as yours – who, by her presence and clothing is obviously a person of means – doesn't need our assistance. Good day.”

And the table to the left of Sameer and Diana was swiftly and without warning, vacant.

“Such an entrance, Diana. Your timing is as disrupting as your beauty.”

“I'm sorry Sami, I did not mean to interrupt. Perhaps you can meet with your friends later?   You said you had something of Steve you wanted to share with me – did you bring the items with you?”

Sameer sat and reached inside a small valise placed beside his chair.

“I apologize if I encouraged your hopes, Diana. All I have are a few short letters he left me for safekeeping, sent to him from his family; but on those are the addresses of the correspondents, if you wish to contact any of them. Perhaps this will bring you some solace.”

“Yes, thank you. I have nothing of Steve but his watch, and even that... I didn't understand why a machine one wears on ones wrist holds such importance, but I now cherish it for the importance it held for him. I miss him, Sami, so much. More than I should.”

“Diana, you must remember Steve as we knew him is no longer among us, but he will return in a greater form that fits his sacrifice.”

“Return? What do you mean? Is he not dead?”

Sami sat back in his chair, the picture of a man carefully considering his words:

“Each of us lives, dies, and continues on our paths as best we can. All must die, from the form we are now, to return later in a manner that reflects our previous existence. The bodies we see among us are all just passing vessels that contain our true selves. As we live every life we are given, each in a different body, we must earn our way toward a more glorious body upon our return. Or, if we do not live to the best of our ability in this life, our next vessel will reflect our poor choices.”

“Are you saying those who die transform into another creature? What magic exists to restore them to what they were?”

“No magic, Diana; we each choose our own fate. Each time we return to this earth, it is another chance to live a better life, and all we can hope is our next appearance will place us in a better position than when we last were. It's like acting; give a good performance, and your next engagement will be at a larger, more grand theatre with an audience that dresses in furs and top hats. Give a poor performance, and you next appear following the trained dogs. So is our lives, Diana; how we live now, determines our future. Take my uncle – a very harsh and unpleasant man. He would strike at anyone he disapproved of – myself, included – and clutch and hold tightly to whatever he believed to be his right. Many times my dear mother, Peace be Upon Her, would do without while my uncle had more than enough. One day he died – found in the street with a dagger in his back that had not been there previously – and the next week a scorpion, very disagreeable, appeared around our home. You do know about scorpions, don't you?”

“It is a scorpion that slayed Orion, in punishment for threatening to slaughter every animal of Earth.”

“Ah! In the stories, this is true; but in the desert, scorpions are bugs which sting from their tail, with clawed arms like crabs. Aware of their lowly place in life, they hide in the darkness in shame. Very undesirable. To be pierced by one is pain; or perhaps, as you say, death. As soon as the vile insect appeared, we knew it was our uncle returned in a lower form as his punishment. To kill such a reincarnation would be questioning the will of God and placing oneself on a lesser path, so each time it came near we would sweep it away with a broom. The teachings tell us rebirth is not only a renewal for those on _their_ journey; but a test of each of _us_ , of patience and compassion and how we treat those who have returned.”

“But what of this scorpion? Is it still at your mothers home?”

“Oh, many years ago it was eaten by a mongoose. That was the last we saw of my uncle, may his mongoose dung serve to nourish the earth.”

Although not as unintelligible as the 'heaven and hell' beliefs Etta had expressed earlier, this 'return of the dead' presented by Sami was not something Diana could accept. True, there are stories of the Gods, occasionally, releasing a Hero from death, or an intercession that would change a human from one form to another; but always as a lesson or test. She was not aware of any instances when the Gods had transformed any being into a guise that would not allow him to somehow return to his former self; or even a _better_ form of himself; no matter what struggles and trials and labours that may involve. No, she could not believe Steve or any man would be bound to return to a life without understanding and for no greater purpose.

“I don't know, Sami, if everyone who dies returns; not once but again and again; in time everyone would recognize the new forms of each other. There would not be any learning or growth to a better life. I wish I could believe, as you do, but I don't want to one day learn anyone I have loved is now a scorpion or a snake or a sparrow.”

“It is the will of God, Diana, and not for me to say. We each must find our own way.”

“Yes, a way of our own. Thank you, Sami, for the letters and the encouragement. As Etta says, I must raise my chin.”

Within a fleeting span of afternoon sunshine that had briefly overcome the clouds, the two friends sat among the comforts of reflection and memories. From the lunchtime tea Sami had ordered, Diana tested a cucumber sandwich and half-emptied her cup.

“Will I see you again before you return home?”

“Home...? Of course! Let us say that due to the uncertain state of world affairs, my current plans are...ever changing. I am always available to you, _mon beau h_ _éro._ ”

“ _Les dieux veillent sur toi, mon compagnon_.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**3**

 

Diana had only begun her journey toward the British Museum; passing through another garden-like spot where no one referred to her by any name (although as every man she passed removed his hat she recalled how embarrassed she felt when on a walk days before Etta had told her “men only do that for women, not the other way 'round, dear.”); when, through the door of a building at the intersection of three bustling streets, a man suddenly and unceremoniously flew in front of her, landing on the pavement with a 'thumph'.

“Ya canna treat a payin' customer like 'tat!”

Diana almost did not recognize Charlie in clothing that did not include pouches and belts and a skirt.

“Charlie?! Are you hurt? You're not in another fight, are you?”

“Diana! 'Tis nothin' but a bit a misunderstandin'. All we was doin' was enjoyin' a relaxin' drink, when a group 'a soldiers, their chests full 'a medals, came up and started suggestin', just 'cause I'm not in uniform, that I hadn't done me duty in the War. Clearly we couldn' stand for 'tat, and it all turned into a bit of a row. Bein' the one closest to the door, the proprietor decided to toss me out on me arse.”

“We....?”

Before she could continue her thought Diana had to spring aside as the forms of two additional men, kahki-clothed, launched through the doors of 'The Green Man', landing in lumps on the sidewalk and almost knocking Charlie, once again, on his ass.

“Clear air may clear your thoughts”, voiced a shadow that nearly filled the doorway. “But now me and my friend will go back to our drinks.”

In two large strides Chief crossed from the pub to the pathway and had taken Charlie, who was still a bit unsteady on his feet, by the arm. Rather this condition was from alcohol, or his fight, Diana didn't know.

“Itákkaa ksina’oo - how can I help?”

“It is nothing, Diana. Only men with large mouths and little sense. Are you walking toward a place?”

“...no, I am simply touring the city. There is so much to see in London, much I don't understand and much to learn. And I have many things to think about....”

Chief extended his free arm toward Diana.

“Come, we will talk and re-live old stories.”

“Does this... _café_ , still welcome you? There is a garden I passed with many benches...”

“I've still got me drink waitin' for me!”

“It is OK, Diana. If this boss does not trust us, I'm certain he will have no argument with you.”

Inside the pub it appeared a small whirlwind had recently passed, leaving as reminders overturned tables; spilled drinks; broken chairs; and, in a far back corner, their heads partially resting on empty crates, two men who were either unconscious or too inebriated to rise.

“You two!” A gruff, unpolished man, smelling of whiskey and sweat, appeared from behind the bar. His main distinguishing feature was the volume of oil in his hair which matched the amount of grease on his apron. In his left hand he held a damp rag, while the right clenched a flat, wooden bat.

“I thought I told you, you're not welcome here. I only ask once; Fanny here does my talking after.”

Even as the barkeep raised his weapon, his arm suddenly froze in mid-swing and a blinding pain radiated from his right elbow. Despite his attempts to move that arm – and he always considered himself a strong man – the slightest twitch only increased the pain, forcing him to drop the bat in agony. Beside him stood an attractive, well-dressed woman holding his elbow between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. While imposing, she didn't appear to have the strength that could best even an average man; and by her self-assured grace and composure, she certainly was a different class than usually frequented his bar.

“Don't you think there's been enough disagreement for today? If you will just replace my friends drinks, we will sit at that table by the window, enjoying each others company, and not bother anyone.”

Diana flashed her brightest smile.

“I promise.”

“Oh, I, uh, didn't know this gentlewoman was with you two...lads. Of course, all are welcome at the Green Man. Please, sit and enjoy yourself. What will you be drinking, Miss...Madame...me' Lady?”

“Nothing for me, thank you. A glass of water?”

“Certainly, and happy to provide. Can I bring you a plate, perhaps? We have a fine pork pie; maybe some rag pudding, or bangers and mash?” While not certain any of these items actually were sitting in his cupboard, the barman was hoping these few extra moments of conversation would allow the blood to return to his arm, which had lost feeling despite the amount of rubbing he had been devoting to its resurrection.

“No, just water.” From her first day among the world of men, Diana could not reconcile their desire to consume the flesh of other beings. Did men not see themselves as any better than the vulture; or the barracuda; or the hyena, who must blindly follow their instincts for blood-lust? Unable to make their own choices, and without realization that all who breathed, and walked, and gave birth were each created in the same fashion, differing only in their form? Even the gods themselves subsisted on the finest ambrosia of fruits, nectar and honey, rarely accepting the lives of the innocent and then only for specific offerings; and always among those who had taken these lives with recognition and awareness of the sacrifice which had been made. But mankind was only a recent creation, and perhaps in time they would grow.

“On your way man, can' you see me an' me friends have some serious talkin' ta do!” Charlie had sufficiently recovered to either look forward to the company of his companions; or the walk from the front door to the table had primed him for another drink. Sorting through nearby chairs for three with the least damage, the trio settled into the nearest window table; Diana sat to one side as, across from her, Chief remained close to Charlie, occasionally providing a bit of support to keep his friend in a moderately upright position.

“I see you two have been...filling your time. Certainly you haven't spent these past weeks only drinking and reminiscing?”

“Don't be daft, woman, 'tis only a wee celebration. Now that 'tis all over, ah need something to drown me memories.”

“Over...?”

“The army gave Charlie the paper saying he is a free man. They thought he was dead.”

“Aye, gone and buried in the mud of some French shell-hole. If I'd known I was dead, I wouldn' a been worryin' so much!”

With both hands Diana grasped the fist of her companion. She noticed it was slightly trembling.

“Oh Charlie, if you were dead, then who would bring us music? There were probably many mistakes made during the War...much confusion and loss. If only Steve could be 'brought back' as easily as with a piece of paper.”

The barman returned with two tumblers of whiskey he deposited at the end of the table; and carefully placed a glass of water in front of Diana. In response, her glance conveyed both 'Thank you'; and 'Nothing more'. She looked across to Charlie who had already drained his glass to half-empty and was wiping his mouth on a slightly-used napkin.

“Tis best just to be thankful for the time ye had together, Lass. We live, we die, 'tis nothing after that. Steve was ma' friend, and I'll always be raisin' a glass to his memory, but he's gone now, Diana, and nothin's gonna' bring 'em back.”

“But Charlie, why would the gods create this world with all its beauties and wonders, and place us all here to work and learn and live together in peace, if there was nothing after this? Why would the gods give us everything, only to take it all away?”

“AYE, WOMAN! That's what the churches and them religious conversionists will tell 'ya. 'Live a 'good life' now, and ye'll reap the rewards 'a heaven.' 'Turn away from yer sins before 'tis too late.' Go to chapel and sing yer hymns and believe that no matter what hell on earth yer trapped in, God will take 'ya to heaven when 'tis all over. Well, I lived most a me life believn' that, and where did it get me? Me family, me mates, even me damned reason taken and me powerless to do anything about it. No matter how much church goin' or hymn singin' or believn' I could muster. No, Diana, all there is is what ya' see 'round us. 'Tis nothing more. So enjoy it while ya can, and be thankful for it when it's gone.”

“Charlie, surely you don't believe there is _nothing_ awaiting us?”

“I canna believe what I canna see. I only know the harder you try to hold onta something, the faster it slips from your grasp. Every man beside me, Diana, thought he was fightin' and dyin' for somethin'. Never did I see a man die with a smile on his face. And with that inspirin' thought, I think I'll be takin' a wee nap.”

Charlie leaned into the corner, shut his eyes and sought, if only for a few minutes and wholly by the apathy of alcohol, the only peace he knew.

“Will Charlie be alright?”

Edging aside his untouched drink, Chief shifted in his seat and slightly leaned forward towards Diana.

“He needs someone to guide him through this journey. I am Someone. It all works out.”

“Diana,” he continued simply, “You know Steve is not gone. He is living with the Old Ones.”

She considered this for a moment. Diana and the friend she called ' _nisskána_ '; or ' _aapí’si_ ': or ' _napi_ '; or any other of his many forms, shared a unspoken connection that neither wished to broach. They understood that often the close examination of something will remove its magic.

“When I was a young girl, my mother would tell me stories of the dead awaiting their passage to the Underworld. Even then, they must present payment for the crossing or they will forever be trapped between this world and the next, unable to progress forward or back, until their souls decay into shadow. Steve died with nothing. I cannot bear the thought that he will suffer such fate, but it is true.”

“I don't believe that is true. The Spirits of the People go to a holy place where life goes on. As the person was in this world – good or bad; honest or without trust; loving or selfish; so will he be among the Old Ones. Death only takes the body; it does not change the Spirit. The People would not have been created only to die. Some who have great purpose or power do not die at all, but return.”

“Sami told me the dead can come back as other people, or animals, or even insects. They are not what they were, but something different that must fight and suffer with each passing life.”

“That cannot be so. When Old Man and Old Woman made the People, each was created from a part of the earth, the mother of all. Everyone is their own selves, not like anyone else. No mud is the same as any other mud. No one can come back as a different person than who he is.”

“My mother moulded me from clay...and always told me I was unlike anyone who had come before, or would be after. Is this what you are saying?”

“Of all that has been created, is there anything that is the same? Each rock; each tree; each animal is its own self. It is true of all.”

“Napi, who returns? Returns back as they were; those you spoke of who have great purpose?”

“For a time, the Spirit remains in the body. There are too many bonds holding it to this world. If the Spirit and body are still one; and there is a connection strong enough to reach between this world and the next; and the dead are willing to return; they may come back. But the dead also try to tempt others to accompany them to the next world. In both directions the way is dangerous and the results unknown. Each of us must find the way that has been prepared for us. Sometimes we need help. Sometimes we are alone. But it is our own journey and we must make our own way. The path we take is not a path we follow but a path we discover.” As if confirming his own thought, Chief; _Napi_ ; nodded toward Diana. “Take your path, nisskána.”

The elaborate and tortuous realm of the Olympian gods Diana had learned as a child, though intricate and entangled with consequence, remained consistent in that the gods always influenced the paths of others; and while it was possible, at times, to outwit the gods; their ultimate effect could never be overcome. Compared with the beliefs of mankind she had been exposed to in just one day: The child-like good/bad of heaven and hell; a procession of endless lives each in a new form and as punishment or reward; and the possibility that there is no meaning in this life and nothing to follow; only Napis' outline of the Spirit, and the body, and a life that continues among the world of the Creators, made sense. The possibility of a return – either to the origin of all, to live as before; or, possibly, back to the world of the living; was the purpose she had been seeking. She had recognized her path, accepted her journey, and found her feet. Diana of Themyscira, Daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, would rescue Steve Trevor from Hades.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

Within the past week Steve had crashed into the sea, nearly drowned, but somehow been rescued and interrogated by the mythical Amazons who appeared to be an entire civilization composed exclusively of powerful and beautiful women; he had stolen vital laboratory notes of Germany's most feared scientist from a secret enemy factory – and had that notebook virtually ignored by his superiors; traveled to the Front where during a battle that resulted in the only Allied progress for months, he had discovered the woman he was falling in love with was possibly the greatest of all heroes; and witnessed that same woman fighting a being whom she identified as Ares, the God of War - but Steve recognized as Sir Patrick, M.O.P. and chief advocate of the armistice proposal. So on some level, it made sense that now he had been snatched from imminent death by _another_ god; and instantly transported to the _home_ of the gods.

“Athena! What have you done? Man cannot enter, nor remain, among the Gods! It is blasphemy.”

Hera, the wife of Zeus, had never fully accepted Athena as her daughter. Immanently jealous of the offspring resulting from each of her husbands... _indulgences_ , Athena had been created fully formed, armour-clad, and with spear in hand; solely by Zeus. Despite her misgivings and inferred rumors, as far as Hera could discover Athena had appeared without the participation of any female, human or diety. Thus Hera regarded the Goddess of War as daughter in name only. Despite among all his children the one most favored by Zeus, Athena’s determination and resolve often became more a burden than asset.

Steve dodged the small owl that appeared from nowhere to settle onto Athena's outstretched arm.

“Hera, this is the companion of Diana, Daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons.”

(Diana. Another of Zeus' lineage of which Hera had her suspicions).

“Among all mankind, he is the only one who has demonstrated the strength, the passion, the ability required to compel Diana to depart from her mother and from Themyscira....who has enlightened in Diana the love she must draw from to continue her journey. I believe he is unique among men.”

“Unique or no, is he not even _dead?!_ ”

Within a blinding violet-fire flash of thunderbolt, the Father-god Zeus could be relied upon to make a dramatic entry. The courtyard they were standing on; edged by tall evergreen trees and surrounded by fountains and buildings fronted with polished white marble; for a moment glowed with intensity that reminded Steve of the most terrorizing bombardments of the War.

“No, Father, I tore him from the sacrifice he was prepared to make. His insignificant, empty life..."

“Uh, that's not exactly true....”. While Steve wouldn't necessarily consider himself a _hero_ , he certainly wouldn't describe his life as _insignificant_....

“...yet his life to cherish; for the life of Diana and countless others.”

Zeus scoffed. “Foolish human. Diana would not have perished. As for the lives of man, they have slaughtered each other by the millions; why would the deaths of a few more be of any interest or concern? Hera is correct; man cannot be among the gods. I am surprised he has not already withered simply by being in our presence. He will be returned where he will accept his fate.”

Athena stamped the staff of her spear onto the marble, resulting in a spray of unexpected, silver-blue sparks. “No, he is under my protection. Surely you agree the journey of Diana; of the _GodKiller_ ; is of such importance that she must not bear the weight alone? Have we not learned from Atlas? Is this not why you accepted the prayers of Hippolyta and breathed life into the child she had sculpted from clay?”

“Zeus, I agree. Each day I traverse across the earth; I look down and see the toils and anguish of mankind. Did you not create the Amazons; given life to Diana; to lessen these hardships and bring them hope?”

Even with his eyes shielded to little more than a squint and a hand in front of his face, Steve could not see beyond the blinding golden glare of the figure that had spoken.

“This is not your concern, Apollo. Athena has taken it upon herself to do the unthinkable, and now I must redress her actions.”

“No, father, it is my concern. And the concern of all the Gods. Each of us, in our own ways, has an interest in mankind and if Athena has seen cause to bring one of them into our refuge, her choice must be honored.”

While trying to keep track of all that surrounded him, Steve directed his attention in the general vicinity of Athena, who, of all the 'gods' he had so far encountered, seemed slightly less....frightening.

“I, uh, don't mean to butt into what seems to be a....family argument, but isn't this all about why I'm here, and as ...a...this guy...a... _was mentioned_ , shouldn't I be...dead?...”

“No, Steve Trevor, this is the home of the Gods. I, Athena, have seized you from your sacrifice for a greater purpose. Welcome!”

“Sure... And what's this about Diana being created as the _'god-killer'_!? You mean Diana was meant to be a weapon!?”

Steve took a few steps back as Athena approached. He found nothing in her movement or nature that awoke the fear and dread he had become so accustomed to in the endless terrors of these past months; nothing that made him question his own life, or his own worth. Nonetheless, she _was_ a...god. Plus that owl on her shoulder was looking at him with an unsettling eye.

“The daughter of Hippolyta exists only because The Queen of the Amazons so desperately yearned for a child; and cared for her as lovingly; and prepared her for what is to come. It is only through the life she has experienced, and those she has known; the skills she has achieved and the love she has felt – including your love, Steve Trevor – has this lump of clay become Diana of Themyscira. There is no other she could have been, and no other that could have fulfilled her destiny.”

Zeus also moved closer toward Steve, each step marked by a brief yet fierce glow of fire tinged violet-blue and wisp of dusky smoke. Steve and his fear were reunited.

“Ares was...headstrong and reckless. He brought upon his own fate through his conceit. By believing he, alone, understood the minds of all Olympians; and he could shape and form destiny, and wield the power of all Gods; his insolence was the key to his defeat. By allowing him to believe he had slain us all; even as we retreated to this refuge and observed the preparation of Diana; we recognized that only if Ares believed he had achieved victory would he through his arrogance believe he could not be defeated. If we, the Gods, had continued to fight against him the battle would have endured for aeons, eventually spanning from the heavens to earth and even the Underworld, destroying mankind and all I had created. I could not allow that to occur. Diana was not given life to become the GodKiller and defeat Ares before he destroyed all; however she was recognized as the one that could best accomplish that task.”

“So you, just... _play_ with peoples lives? Whatever you need of them, they're expected to provide without thought of what _they_ might want?”

“Yes, Steve Trevor. I am Zeus. We are the Gods. But the issue remains, what are we to do with you? Athena will not allow your return – although that would be the _proper_ action – and, as you are not dead, there is no place for you in the Underworld. Perhaps I could devise a voyage, committing you to solve puzzles and rout monsters until you do, in fact die.....or banish you to a far-away land to live out the remains of your wretched life....”

“...there is one more thing you are not aware of, Father of All.”

“Yes, Athena? Are you now to tell us this is not a man, but Hermes himself, come in one of his many forms to trick us in jest! Such a good joke!! Perhaps he is an enchantment of Circe; a beast she has transformed to vex and confuse the Gods!”

While not diminishing her splendor, the goddess glanced down in humility. Even her owl, who seemed to be preening her wing, simply succeeded in hiding its face.

“With no knowledge, Steve Trevor drank and bathed from the Water of Life. As these sacred waters were provided for the Amazons alone; to secure their health and sustain their youth far beyond that of a mortal.....it was never intended for mankind and its effects on a human are unknown. It is possible....he is now immortal.”

For an instant the presence of Zeus was not that of a man, but of lightning personified, merciless and uncontrollable. Just as quickly the familiar form returned, although surrounded by bolts of crackling, scarcely-harnessed blue-white energy:

“WHO ALLOWED THIS?! I will have no further part in this impiety. Summon Hermes to conduct this.... _man_...to Hades immediately. He is now relinquished to the Judges. And  each of us will consent to their decision.”

 

* * *

 

No one is welcomed into the realm of Hades without judgment. But the judge is not Hades himself; nor Thanatos, or the Erinyes, nor any of the shadowed deities that find more comfort in darkness than in light. Rather three sons of Zeus - Rhadamanthys and Minos, sons of a human mother; and Aeacus, born of a river nymph – were appointed the task. Each an honored king in life; by their just, wise and honorable reigns they were awarded the task of judging each soul as it arrived in the Underworld.

The three nobles, each dressed in robes befitting their position, sit on an elevated platform, the center position slightly above those on either end. The rough floor before them, made of volcanic rock which radiated a soft orange glow, was in size sufficient space for only an individual; while at the same time vast and without limit.

“Hermes, it is....unusual for you to deliver to us a soul that has not arrived by the ferry of Charon. Surely there must be some reason you stand before us?”

“I, the messenger of the Gods, bring you greetings and honors from Zeus himself. He has directed me to deliver this man for judgment. I am not to tell you why the Gods ask this of you; only that you fairly judge and determine a just sentence.”

“For the souls of man there is, with little exception, only one sentence. Even those who dwell upon the heights of Olympus know this. He will endure in The Asphodel Meadows, where those who have lived in neither distinction nor disgrace wonder through a misty eternity of mindlessness.”

“Judge Rhadamanthys, I am before you not with the soul. But with the man. He is not dead, but taken from the world above because he was deemed worthy.”

Steve was fed-up with _his_ life being debated and criticized by 'gods' he had never believed existed, now determining his fate. Tired of being talked about as if he wasn't even present; and angry that he _wouldn’t_ have been present if he had just been left alone to die in that bomber. 'Gods', or judges, or whatever they chose to call themselves, Steve didn't see why he should gratify the whims of an ancient morality.

“It seems to me since I'm the one who's about to be judged, I should at least be able to be heard...uh, allowed to _defend_ myself. I was fighting in the War, trying to stop a load of deadly gas from being dropped on England, or even from blowing up somewhere along the way killing hundreds.... _thousands_ of innocent people. I left all I cared about, everyone that meant something to me, and never asked to be saved or singled out or to be a hero. If you - _someone_ – will just send me back where I came from, that's fine with me. I should be dead, anyway.”

“All that is insignificant. If Hermes is to be believed, you are not dead; yet you have been selected by the Gods; you are now entwined within their favor. As it is the will of Zeus, we will judge you as any other. I, Rhadamanthys, have been charged with judgment of the mankind of Asia. Judge Aeacus is designated judge of the mortals of Europe. Judge Minos casts the third and final vote. We, the Judges of the dead, will determine what threads connect you to the Olympians, and decide upon a just sentence that befits whatever substance the gods have seen in you. Before us, all must stand exposed, Steve Trevor, just as your final judgment will be laid bare before you. We discern not only your actions in life, but also the nature of your intentions and motives. From us nothing can be hidden and all will be revealed.”

“Judge Rhadamanthys, my duty is not only to cast the third vote; but also to preside over the most difficult cases. As this man does not dwell from either Asia or Europe, but has been entrusted to us by the Gods themselves; and, as he is _not yet dead_ ; I contend he is my responsibility.”

“Judge Minos, you ask we surrender the fate of this mans soul to you alone? Just as you determined the fate of the Minotaur? No, we all will judge, as we have been ordained. However we will hear your argument and each reach our own decision.”

Minos withdrew into himself, eyes open but seeing not what was before him but things far away; hearing not what was said, but what was sensed; simultaneously present and absent.

“I see the world of man is in the midst of a great war. A war where millions of souls suffer and perish....”

“Aren't men _always_ in war, brother?”

“...And this war is for....it is not for resources, nor territory, nor revenge, nor even for passion....”

“It's a great big mess.”

“No need to 'defend' yourself, mortal. We see all there is to be seen, and all that is unseen.”

“...Yet even while your countrymen died, cities burned, and neither adversary could claim progress or failure, you, Steve Trevor, did not accept your allegiance to stand for either cause?”

“It's not exactly like that, it's a long story....”

“BE STILL! There is nothing you can add that we do not know. You will only answer when you are directed. I see other times when you dismissed moments the Fates had placed in your path....when you neglected the needs of others in your selfishness...forsook love and compassion for temporary advantage....”

“You mean regrets? There's no one who doesn't have regrets. Sure, maybe I would have done some things differently.....”

“One mans regret is another mans misery. The carelessness of one leads to the anguish of many.”

Judge Minos returned from his contemplation and addressed his brothers.

“Judge Rhadamanthys and Judge Aeacus, in this man I see both the remarkable and the inferior. With meager exception he has lived to gratify himself and, until he had no other option, has he failed to contribute to the lives of others or to mankind. However the worth of a man lay not only in his actions but how those actions; and inactions; affect others. Brothers, we must examine the life not only of Steve Trevor; but the lives of those he has influenced. Only then will we understand why the Olympians have selected and entrusted him to our final judgment.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

“Steven! Steven Livingston Trevor! You do NOT run away from your father while I'm addressing you!”

“I don't know what to do with our youngest, Caroline. He is so headstrong, he has such potential but refuses to take on what I set out for him to do.”

“He's just a boy Charles, and boys have to given their freedom.”

“Hmmf. When I was his age, I took notice of all my father said, and wouldn't think of disobeying him. I honored my mother and even as I child I understood my actions reflected back upon my family and my home.”

Major Charles Trevor, RMA (Ret.) stood at the edge of the terrace connecting his home to the modest fourteen acre parcel he had purchased just to the North-East of Woodbridge, New Jersey. Although 48 years old – far too young for a graduate of the Royal Military Academy to have left active service – this was officially accounted for as, during one of the final engagements of 'that unfortunate African affair' he had suffered a wound that classified him as 'no longer suitable for the Kings duty'. More simply, in the First Boer War he had been lanced through the right thigh with a shell fragment, almost bleeding out and now unable to walk without the aid of a cane. To have to depend upon an artificial support was, he had always thought, unfortunate; however it did add an air of authority in his new post as Assistant Ambassador from the UK to the US, New York office. As on many crisp days following the heat of an intolerable summer he was enjoying an afternoon outdoors with his wife and son. (In the Autumn of 1898 the schedule of an Assistant Ambassador to the US, New York, was seldom crowded).

“Yes, I expect when you were a boy you were the perfect little gentleman. You washed every night, even though you would never _dream_ of becoming dirty; you revered your father and adored your mother; never gave cause for a hand to be raised toward you in discipline; but if it were, you accepted your punishment as a man; and every morning waited patiently as the downstairs butler polished your shoes that were set out for you by the upstairs butler. And when _you_ were a boy you would have never, ever allowed a pretty girl to kiss you on the cheek like this.”

“A house only has one butler, Caroline. Make light of it if you will, but if Steven continues in this way he will never be accepted into the top-rate public schools. That's the problem, you know; these American 'schools' where there is no conformity and little expectation and half the students are allowed to leave anytime their family claims they're needed to help at home. Encourages a boy to be reckless, and without purpose. The children's education will improve once we return to England.”

“A child’s purpose is to be a child. We've had this discussion before, darling; our children were born in America and this is their home. Maybe one day, when they are old enough to compare both countries for themselves and decide which side of the family they favor, one or both can attend your London universities and play with crickets and paddle down the Thames all they choose.”

“Madeline I'm not concerned about. She is smart and charming and pretty – though not as pretty as her mother – and she will marry well. Rosemary Hall is a fine finishing school. Not not quite up to English standards, but adequate. Next summer when she's in London with my parents, I'm certain her schedule will be filled with young men calling every night. Mother writes they may even go to the country for a few weeks. There's no need for her to consider attending University, that resignation is only for girls who want to be nurses, or school teachers, or who can't find a suitable husband. But Steven...he must _make_ something of his life, my dear. I'm not asking him to honor tradition and attend Woolrich as I, or his grandfather, or his _great-_ grandfather; or even to follow me into the Diplomatic Corps. But he must develop his character beyond running about finding trouble or dreaming of 'motor-races'.

“Maybe if you support and encourage him, motors and machines _will_ be his character. The world's changing, Charles.”

In her most fanciful dreams, Caroline Ayres had never believed one day she would be married to a dashing army officer; or a diplomat; to have a fine home with just enough household help to make her feel necessary and useful, yet not overwhelmed; and be the mother of two wonderful children. The daughter of a successful Trenton businessman, as a girl she was scarcely allowed to leave the house without her nanny in tow, and she spent countless hours in the playroom of her family’s townhome, amusing herself with the few girlish toys she was allowed. There are only so many times one can decorate a dollhouse or have tea with a stuffed lion. As a young woman Caroline endured endless hours entertaining over-educated boys from the nearby University, who she found either beyond her ability to tolerate; or below her level of interest. She counted the days until she would depart on her Debutantes Tour of London and Paris; the only European cities, she had been told, worth visiting. While not the 'Grand Tour' reserved only for those of the most esteemed gentry, a fine overseas trip was more than many girls of her status could expect. And from that trip she met Charles, who provided all she could ever want or need.

“Do you think your parents will take Maddy to the Continent? The papers report that the international auto race will finish in Paris sometime in the summer.....”

“Machines will never take the place of horses, Caroline. It's uncivilized.”

“...and during the celebration there will be moving pictures and exhibits from countries near and far and all the city will be illuminated with electricity. And the fashions! It will do her good to visit Paris. It's so much more...cosmopolitan than New York.”

“A _Trevor_ _,_ in _France_? Please, Caroline.”

 

* * *

 

 

“And this, Steve my boy, is the Indian V-twin, the fastest motorcycle made today. It will run circles 'round that Douglas of yours and still have enough 'umph' to catch the eyes of any deb or vamp that suits your fancy. But since you've got the glad-eye for Keri, I guess any skirt-fishing will have to be left to me.”

When James Tiernan immigrated to the United States in 1909, his journey was in distinct contrast to those of his countrymen. Of the nearly nine million Irish who attempted the difficult and dangerous crossing during the first decade of the new century, only a handful were in the position to make the journey not due to loss of home or scarcity of food or lack of opportunity or any other hardship; rather, James was seeking the uniquely American experience of open spaces and self-determination and freedom. While the challenges and opportunities of immigrants more than fifty years past – famine; misfortune; disease both of body and of 'gold fever' - were no longer the critical factor in Irish immigration; those concerns had been replaced with social upheaval, unrest, and oppression. What drew James, and others like him was not necessity but opportunity; the call of a new land for those who could afford to make the journey not by steerage as hundreds of thousands of earlier travelers; nor by the first class opulence of grandeur and extravagance; but in the comfort of a respectable second-class room; bathing facilities shared by no more than two cabins; dressing for dinner (or at least the _expectation_ of changing into less casual clothing); and the overall consideration and treatment as a gentleman, if not one particularly of the topmost classes. In some ways, it was not unlike being back at Public School.

The son of a Shipyard manager, James had enjoyed the privileges of an upper-class Irish life. While considered by those in England, proper, as still a class or two below 'acceptable' British standards, the Tiernan family was regarded among the affluent of Belfast. While less-fortunate immigrants from Southern and Eastern Europe continued to stream into Ellis Island, on his voyage James met only those from his homeland who had the skills, talent, temperament, and most of all – education – to be accepted into American society.

It had been arranged that James would live with his Aunt and Uncle (who years earlier had made the United States their home), outside of Princeton, New Jersey; where it was _understood_ he would continue his education at the cities' correspondingly-named University, or, if necessary, a suitable institute of higher education in the vicinity. But after one year of studies and a few weekend trips to the local motor tracks, James began devoting less time to class and more to mechanics. In short order he had managed to convince his relatives that their old barn was about to fall down so it wouldn't matter if he 'tinkered around' in it; had found and secured various cycles, both with and without motors, all in various states of disrepair, and dragged them to his new 'garage'; and had succeeded in banging together a racing motorcycle, which he not only taught himself to ride but, miraculously, succeeded in bringing home first-place prizes from local races. While not the _academic_ success the family had aspired for their son; James had attained an uniquely _American_ achievement. And that's all his parents could hope for, despite their continual worry over his 'races', even though they couldn't completely realize the dangers. So when James wrote that he had taken on a 'partner' – actually a young man not much older than James was when he first left Ireland - who was 'keen' on motors and came from an upstanding family; whose mother was fifth-generation American and whose father was a former war hero and currently a Diplomat – James' mother and father felt a load lift from their shoulders, knowing that now, perhaps, there would be a level head to balance their sons impulsiveness.

“Well, James”, muttered Steve, half-paying attention to the conversation as he worked on his bike, “if I'd known I have to listen to your bragging every day, maybe I'd never had joined this collection of broken-down machines you call a motor racing team. Maybe I'd of re-thought my intentions if I'd known you and Kari came together as a matched pair.”

“I think Keri _knows_ your intentions, ole' chap. Mother and Father, not so much. With every letter they're questioning if you're hanging around because of Keri or for the free meals. In no uncertain terms they've told me it makes no difference that we're living with our Aunt and Uncle, my sisters' _my_ responsibility and, as long as they're in Ireland and we're over here, I need to double-check that any man keeping company with Keri is principled and upstanding and worthy. And if she can't find anyone like that, I guess she'll have to settle for you. Of course if you keep coming in second behind her big brother, race after race after race...that just won't do. If only Keri knew the amount of time I'm investing just to make you a respectable part of the family.”

“Respectable; yes. 'Family' is yet to be seen. Far as I know she won't even have me.”

“Only one way to find out, chum, only one way. Ya' have that motor put back together yet? Only a couple weeks before the 1915 qualifiers down at Brighton.”

Steve stepped back to admire his work. Or maybe to avoid the spray of hot oil his cycle had developed that he'd been trying to repair. He gave the rear tire a generous 'heave-ho', sparked the ignition, and the bike shuddered on its stand.

“It's as good as it's going to get. I'll take it for a couple spins round the loop, if I don't come back covered in burnt oil I guess that's problem solved.”

He had just lifted the motorcycle from its work stand and was cautiously setting it on the ground – if careful, he might be able to put both wheels down without the engine quitting. If that happened, he'd have to push the bike while running alongside, balancing the weight while avoiding any large rocks or potholes, for at least a few dozen feet hoping it would catch so he could hop on – when he spotted a petite but determined figure marching from the house at the top of the hill toward the garage.

“Steve! Steve Livingston Trevor!”

“Please Ker, don't call me by that middle name. You know it was something my father would use whenever he wanted to lecture me about something I'd done, yet again, to disappoint him.”

“I just want you to know I'm bein' so very angry with ya'. And now you're comparin' me to your father? I'm not _lookin_ like your father, am I?”

“No....he never wore his hair the way you do...”

Keri Tiernan had been in America less than three years. In Ireland, frustration with the British government that had been building for generations recently escalated into a new round of violence. Not the violence that had been continuing for decades, where random acts and hastily-gathered crowds rallied against general injustices; but organized and coordinated rebellion toward the goal of a free, self-governing Ireland at any cost. When the Irish Parliamentary party gained the balance of power; but not the deciding voice; in the 1910 national elections, the British authorities feared open civil war, divisions within the Empire, and took steps to insure the Kingdom would remain united, even if the requirement was military intervention. Seeing this as, once again, British rule attempting to ignore the will of Irish citizens, talk of defiance and uprising spread along the streets of Dublin; Cork; Belfast; and throughout the island. Some among those in the upper classes of Irish society with the resources and connections made plans to leave the United Kingdom should open rebellion arise. Others, with business, social, or cultural ties too strong to abandon – but with loved ones they wished to protect – arranged for their children to 'attend school' or 'visit relatives' overseas, until the political situation was resolved. One of these children sailing to the United States was Keri Tiernan.

Although in May 1912 only 15 years old, (actually _just_ turned 15, as her parents delayed her voyage by a few weeks so they could celebrate her birthday), Kari was more self-assured than others of her age; among the parents of her friends, it would be whispered that she was 'brash' and 'over-confident'. If these attributes were a result of her relatively privileged upbringing; being the youngest, and some would say spoiled, child; her Irish heritage; or just her personality, no one knew. But in even the most simple interactions, Keri would often wear down all but the most determined opponent. Three years later, and despite the best efforts of the staff at Farmingham Finishing School, she rather enjoyed discovering in Steve a sparring partner worthy of her attentions.

“Urrrmh...Steve Livin...STEVE TREVOR! I would be screamin' if it were to make any difference!

“Yeah, that would make it easier to hear you over the engines. Now what's on your mind that you came down to this 'ole' greasy smelly garage' that you say you can't bear?”

“It bein' this fine Spring day, _and_ the Saturday you promised to take me sailin' and on a picnic, what do I find but you playin' with your toys wastin' the day away. And don't say James put you up to it, we all know the both of you are like peas in a pod. And here I've gone and packed a lunch of roast chicken and cheese-and-tomato sandwiches and Saratoga chips and potato salad and coconut sponge cake and even pineapple marmalade and two bottles of milk and four bottles of Ginger Beer to wash it all down. And it's not like any of that'll keep. I guess I'll just be enjoyin' all that hard work by myself, sittin' under the shade by the river, and I won't be havin' a boat ride after all.”

“I'm sorry, Keri, I got caught up here and lost track of time...”

“Be that as it may I'll not be waitin' forever.”

“Just as I said Steve, just as I said.”

“I'll thank you to keep out of this, James Brian Tiernan. It's you that's causin' the problems, with your fine talk of races and prizes and celebrity.”

“What did I do? I was just trying to help. No one needs to fill Steves head with any thoughts of glory. In fact they're so many highfalutin' thoughts crammed in there now, sometimes I think he's tossed out some of the more important stuff just to make more room.”

“Ker, we've got those qualifiers coming up and I really need to test the compression on this engine. If I stop now, I'd just have to take more time later to get  everything set up again and....

I'll make it up to you tomorrow – after church we can spend all day together; in the park, or go boating, anything you want.”

“So you're sayin' you choose those.... _machines_ over me? Hmmf. One day, Steve Trevor, you'll be lookin' around and I won't be there. I know a dozen men who would trip over themselves to keep my company. And who like cheese-and-tomato sandwiches.”

“But that day's not tomorrow. Because tomorrow we'll be drifting on a boat, without a care in the world, looking up at the clouds, dreaming dreams, counting wishes, eating cheese sandwiches, and not once will I even think of a motorcycle.”

“I do na' know why I put up with it. Maybe tis only because when you choose to be, you can melt my heart, Steve Trevor.”

Keri stood about for a few moments, pretending fascination in the stacks of spare parts and containers of various greases and oils scattered around the garage – it's only polite to display an interest in your boyfriends hobbies – all the while wondering why, if men insist on tearing machines apart only to put them together again, why they can't keep everything a little more _clean_ while they do it. Eventually she wondered off, back toward the house, and neither James nor Steve took particular attention.

“Really, Steve, if you want anything to come of you and 'sis, you need to give a little more thought to how you treat her. She's not as tough as she'd like you to think, you know.”

“Sometimes I don't know what to say. When she's teasing and prodding me it's easy, it's fun, but when things start to turn serious....she's just a girl, James.”

“Yea, just about the same age as you were when I took you on. Funny, that.”

Steve pushed his cycle a few feet until the engine sputtered, threw himself onto the seat, and was off in a cloud of dust and partially-burnt gas and oil. By the time he'd returned James was still struggling with the new 'brakes' he'd been trying to work out.

“How'd it go, Steve? Your work up to par? No point takin' any risks if we can catch it here first.”

“It should hold. I'd like to squeeze a little more power out of her, but once the pressure gets too high I've got that oil leak again. We'll see how she runs at the track. There's no risk if you know what you're getting into. You?”

“I don't get it. They've got these things on wagons, autos, even on bicycles but I don't know if they'll even _work_ on a motorbike.”

His head still swaddled in his machine, almost as an off-handed comment, James continued:

“What to you think of this war? Think we'll get in it? Your dad's in the army, isn't he?”

“Long time ago. When he was wounded – this was even before I was born - he could have retired on his income, spent the rest of his life in the country and become a man of leisure. But he's got too much of a sense of honor, serving king and country and all that, so now he's a diplomat. Wanted me to follow in his footsteps -

Steve stands tall and lowers his voice in an impression of his father: ' _From generations past the Trevor men could always be counted upon to do their duty_...' -

I always said he had enough honor and duty for the both of us. But I don't see how this war is any of our business. Let them have their arguments, no reason for us to cross thousands of miles of ocean just to fight someone else's battles.”

“Papers say the Brits are taking it on the chin. Didn't you live in England when you were a kid?”

“Just spent some time with my grandparents. Enough time to know it's not for me. That's about the only reason my mom and dad are living separate lives – he believed his place was in England, mother wanted to stay in the US. When he got that appointment to the Diplomatic Service in London he was beside himself – I'd never seen him so happy. Until mother told him she wasn't about to take my sister and me away from everything we'd known and move across the world for, in her opinion, the same job he had now. It was pretty rough for a while. I think they really care for each other, but both of them are stubborn. For years I felt like it was my fault. Maddy was just about grown, she could have lived at her school, but if it wasn't for me maybe mom would have moved to England and they would have stayed together. Even though she always said London wasn't for her; it was dirty and crowded and old.”

James put down his spanner, wiped his hands with a rag he pulled from his pocket, and directed his attention to his friend.

“Gotta stop seeing things that way, Steve. You were just a kid. We can't control what others do, even our own family.” He paused as if measuring his words; or possibly the reaction from those words. “You know, I've been thinking of joining.”

“The army? The Irish – the British?”

James replied with the certainty of a man that was no longer weighing his options, but had made a decision.

“No, too much bad blood between the 'Lads and the Brits. I've been gone too long to be involved in that again. The Brits are asking for experienced motorcyclists. Carry messages, help with emergency medical transport, even haul pigeons from place to place. Even pay a bonus if you bring your own motor. Be doing something important and a lot safer than sittin' in a hole, target practice for the entire Hun army. When they sunk the Lusitania, hundreds of Brits – and Americans – dead.....I was thinking after this race season you and I could go up to Canada and see what it's all about...”

“Yeah...that's not for me. After what my father went through - fighting savages in the jungle, guerrillas in the desert, almost bleeding to death and now always in pain, can't walk without a cane – and the stories I've heard about some relative on my Father's side - great-great-grandfather, I think - killed at Waterloo in some foolhardy cavalry charge.....Mom would say Europe's history is nothing but one war after another. In America, we've had our war, and now we know better. I'm not putting my life on the line for something that doesn’t even involve me. You go up and talk to the sergeants and let them tell you how 'glorious' and 'honorable' it is to live in the dirt and the mud and not know if you'll be coming home on your feet or in a box. See how they're all wearing their fancy dress uniforms and medals and ribbons and get it out of your system. Then you'll come back, and we'll keep racing and our lives will go on as normal.”

“I didn't know you felt so strongly about it. I thought we....uh, _I_ , could make a difference.”

Steve hadn't left his motorcycle seat, and only when his fingertips began tingling did he realize his knuckles were flush, both hands strangling the handlebars. He wasn't sure what James had said that touched a nerve – maybe it was the war itself, knowledge that men are fighting and dying while he's checking compression ratios and planning picnics with a pretty girl. Or the shock that James had been thinking about this, it seemed, carefully and seriously and Steve hadn't caught on; or maybe it was just memories of the years of war stories he'd been endlessly forced to digest, sentimentally heroic to his father and his friends, but terrifying to a small boy - but he knew the army wasn't for him.

“Neither did I. Sorry if I was.....I don't know. All the times my father talked about our family's 'military tradition' and what that stood for and how I just wasn't measuring up. He'd say, 'if you see a wrong in the world, it's your duty to make it right. You can do something or you can do nothing'. And he made me feel like I was nothing.”

“No Steve, it's my fault. Just dropping it on you out of nowhere, should have thought it out better.”

James reached for a tightening clamp and turned his attention back to his work.

“Hey, give me a hand with these brakes. This is a two man job and tomorrow you'll be too busy stuffing yourself with sandwiches and cake to be any use here.”

 

* * *

 

 _Damn_ , he was sick of that song. Steve didn’t' know where 'Tipperary' was or how long it would take to get there, but as far as he was concerned he was a long way from anywhere. At any time and in any situation one man, soon joined by three or four others, would take up the tune, sometimes only as a whistle, until four or five others would join the chorus. Steve had even witnessed a collection of young infantry troopers burst into song as they crossed no-mans-land. Moving against German machine gun fire, all Steve remembered was hearing the song fade off as voice after voice fell away, some in mid-word, until the melody was shattered.

“Trevor! Lance Corporal Steven Trevor, front and center!”

Sergeant Wilkinson snapped Steve from his trance. In the past week he'd only had a few hours of sleep, and most of that only few minutes at a time. The Sergeant had nine other despatch riders to call from, but it seemed to Steve he was the one that was assigned missions that required the most amount of effort for the least immediate purpose.

“Trevor, be a good lad and run down to the 7th Lancashires. They've used up all their birds and need a few cages moved from the lorry loft to the lines. 7th is at Ru San-Vincent where it crosses Ru Boysange. 'Tween First and Second streets. Lorry should be in a field somewhere off Crucifix Corner.”

In the six months he'd served at the Front, Steve – along with any other riders that had been mucking about for more than a couple of weeks - had memorized all the buildings (or ruins of buildings); trench and artillery positions (both of the British and Germans); and roads of more than a twenty-mile radius around their signals headquarters. Maps, even if you could secure a recent attempt, were usually unreliable; and the signs and placards that identified paths, landmarks, and even trenches seemed to serve more as familiar and comforting place-names rather than information. While the actual location of a station or headquarters changed every few days, seldom moving more than a mile or so and sometimes returning to a site it had held once before, so the locations of all other brigades, regiments, companies and battalions were always a rough guess based upon where they physically _should_ be, and where they were actually found the last time a despatch rider reported in. So locating the terminus of your message; or transporting a wounded man strapped to the side of your bike in some sort of slap-dash contraption; or even delivering cages of pigeons tied behind your seat was usually more a product of guess work; elimination; and hunch than anything else.

But familiarity didn't make it any less dangerous. While the experienced rider has a fair idea where snipers may be concealed; which buildings might still stable enough to use for shelter, if need be; positions of trenches both friendly and enemy; and the patterns and intervals of Boche artillery-fire (because the Germans favor order and procedure in everything); it's just as predictable that each trip could result in an encounter with an enemy patrol; or even a lone soldier lost behind his lines, frightened and desperate to shoot at anyone wearing khaki. It's not unusual to come across unexploded shells, or mud so thick you have to carry or even abandon your machine. Roads that may have been clear yesterday could today be punctuated with shell holes, virtually impassable and always strewn with the wreckage of war; from shattered wagons and smashed autos to horses and men both dead and dying.

And now Steve was ordered to cart pigeons from one location to another just so the birds could fly back to where they came from. It's not that the pigeons weren’t vital to the war – other than the motor and bicycle riders, the birds were the most reliable way to move messages from one commander to another – but hauling feathered messengers wasn't what he'd expected when he volunteered. Nor did it feel like the the honor and duty and 'difference' James wanted to make in the war. James....

Steve had begun to nod off again.

“Yes, Sergeant, shouldn't take me more than hour or so to reach the intersection. With any luck I'll be back tonight.”

“Lucks got nothin' to do with it, son. It's all about keeping your wits about you, and using what the Good Lords give'n you the ability. Not to mention the fine work the good men at Douglas Motorcycle have put into your machine. Stay sharp. You'll be back, when you're back.”

 

* * *

 

Other than pausing a few times to dismiss a potential sniper location or investigate an intact vehicle; and slowing or speeding in rhythm to German artillery; the ride to Crucifix Corner, a three-way intersection marked by a large cross on a nearby hillside, was routine. But at the junction itself, traffic from gun carriages to multi-ton lorries to staff cars to armoured trucks converged and crowded the roadways – already heavy with mud – that it would have taken Steve an hour or more just to get through if he hadn't been on a motorcycle and could weave among and around the vehicles. While military police were trying their best to keep traffic moving, the red-caps seldom questioned the purpose or destination of a despatch rider, whose missions were considered highly important, despite no one other than the driver knowing if the message he carried was a war-changing order from the highest levels, or a request from some officer for a crate of marmalade. While the crossroads was packed with transport wheeled and hoofed, finding the pigeon lorry - a drab-painted truck among muddied and cratered fields - was more difficult. With 'a field off Crucifix Corner' the only information to go on, Steve knew that could mean anything from the truck parked by the roadside, to being partially hidden in the remains of a barn or behind a stand of trees. It's most likely no one, including the truck crew themselves, knew exactly where they were. But in the hundreds of messages Steve had carried these past months, he'd managed to find his destination _most_ of the time. Not seeing anything that looked like a pigeon lorry in the immediate area, he began driving down every road – usually edging his way around other vehicles by balancing between the road and the rim of a roadside ditch – and only managed to slide into the ditch two or three times. He expanded his search down nearby paths, trails, and tracks with no luck. Abandoning any course a truck would most likely take, Steve started off into the fields until, finally, he spotted the outline of a lorry in the distance.

A pigeon lorry (Royal Engineers Signal Service) could not be mistaken. An odd looking, two story truck wrapped in pigeon cages that would have been more at home as a London bus than in a muddy French field – if, of course, the LGOC had decided to carry livestock along with human passengers; and people wouldn't mind riding in what was essentially a barn on wheels. For some reason the crew of this particular lorry had decided to park about a half mile south-east of the Corners at the edge of a bog that was only _slightly_ more swampy than the lion's share of France. Driving up to the bus, Steve noticed only one soldier; odd, as these lorries usually were staffed with three or four. “The only thing more ridiculous than a bus with cages”, Steve mumbled to himself – in the past few weeks that had become an unfortunate habit, mumbling to himself - “is a _motorcycle_ with cages.”

“Say!” He called out as he pulled up a few feet from the soldier, a slight man, a little younger than Steve, with no cap and ginger, disheveled hair. Apparently the corporal hadn't heard him because Steve caught him in the midst of talking to...someone.

“....yes, very open out here, makes you feel exposed, I know. Soon we'll be back in the mountains and snow, just a day or so more.”

“Great”, Steve muttered. “Stay out here long enough and one day I'll be talking to birds.”

“Excuse me, I'm here to pick up some pigeons – they need them at the font and....”

The corporal turned toward Steve; but didn't seem to _acknowledge_ the motorcyclist. In fact as he shifted his feet, it's almost as if he shrunk a few inches; slightly hunching his back, tilting his head down and looking for all purposes as someone who not only didn't want to be bothered; but who didn't want to be _seen._ He appeared more like a man at home in a schoolroom than in the middle of a war.

“Oh, hello. Didn't hear you coming up. What's that you're here for, now?”

“Pigeons. To take to the front. I've got my orders....”

Steve started to reach into his jacket pocket.

“No need. Animals coming and going all day. If you'll leave your machine for a moment, I'll have you loaded up in no time.”

The corporal took a transfer cage – large enough to carry about a dozen birds – and started retrieving pigeons from the various cages of the truck and placing them into the carrier. He was efficient at his job, and seemed far more at ease when he was occupied with his work; and when he didn't have to look Steve in the eye.

“So”, Steve began; trying to break the silence; “where's your mates? Unusual to see a lorry with only one man.”

“Just off for a bit, I'm sure.”

“Yeah. Fighting's been rough around here. Guess everyone’s' needing pigeons, the way the fronts moving from one hour to the next. How you'd get stuck carting pigeons around, huh?”

“I volunteered. Doing my part.”

The guy's not much of a conversationalist, thought Steve.

“Volunteered? Your truck's basically a big, moving target. Up here, just few miles from the front... sitting alone in a field....isn't it dangerous....particularly for someone like....you? I mean for someone with your temperament, and, uh...build?”

“There are greater dangers. I do what I can. We can't all be heroes.”

The soldier had filled the cage and finished securing it to the back of Steve's motorcycle.

“There you are. Take good care, say?”

“Sure, thanks.” With cages on the back of the motor it was even more difficult to get it started; run alongside; and jump on; than when the machine carried nothing but its rider. But this was Steve's job. “Probably be seeing you again.”

The corporal had already started to move back toward his truck, but turned his head in reply.

“Possibly. I'll be moving off shortly. Your accent – Canadian?”

“No, American. I figure we'll be in it sooner or later. May as well start doing something now. And I didn't have much of a choice....”

“America?” replied the corporal, seeming as if this simple response had caught him off-guard but still unwilling, or unable to look straight at Steve. “I've always wanted to visit America. I hear the deserts are as open as the sky.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't know anything about that. I'd just be happy with a sky that didn't rain down shells and shrapnel.”

Steve drove off, mumbling to himself “I hope that little guy makes it.”

 

* * *

 

It's rare that a mission turns out as straightforward as ordered. Once Steve had found the 7th Lancashires (which, it turned out, were not between First and Second streets but nearer to the junction of Fourth Street and Spring Gardens); delivered the pigeons; took a short rest for a cup of tea and a few biscuits (not the almost-inedible hardtack issued to all, but some crackers he'd purchased days earlier), Steve began to plot his return trip when a fussy-looking officer came running out of the Headquarters Station.

“Corporal! Chap! Hold on!”

Steve hoped to be back 'home' to the 11th Brigade before the evening Hate began. To rest in his own bed. His own bed, of course, was nothing more than a hollowed out cubby-hole within the side of a trench wall where he'd stashed the few belongings he wasn't wearing or carrying on his person. And _rest_ consisting not of sleep, but dulled dormancy while bundled onto a wooden platform with a damp blanket, where even eyes shut tight couldn't block the immediacy of flares illuminating the night and unearthly wail of shells landing far enough away to be no threat, yet close enough to always be threatening. But it was _someplace_ to go back to; and he didn't have the time or interest to see why or what this Subaltern was shouting.

“You, there! Despatch! The Major needs to speak with you!”

Steve could have driven off and had it done with. His job was not to answer to any officer who decided a despatch rider was his personal messenger service; and the riders were required to take orders – and messages – only from their direct officers or officers, commissioned and non, within their Brigade. As far as this lieutenant knew, Steve couldn't even hear him over the engine. He could have just driven off. But he didn't.

“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”

“Come down off that machine, Corporal. Major Frisby has a message to be delivered immediately.”

Probably notifying someone up the line that his Battalion is in position. Simply checking in, keeping everything above board and tip-top, just as a career officer would, thought Steve as he shut down the engine and climbed off his bike.

Major Frisby sat behind a desk made from scrap wood in the remains of a building that was more ruin than structure. While three walls were standing along with a partial roof, one of the walls was nothing more than a few stacked stones cautiously supporting the portion of the roof that wasn't leaning at a precarious angle. Only a few dozen feet from a support trench; itself steps from the font line; the Headquarters Station was crowded with crates, buckets, tins, scraps of wood and corrugated metal, equipment, and piles of clothing. Although when one of these piles shifted, Steve realized the stacks weren't salvaged uniforms but men overcome with fatigue.

The Lieutenant carefully stepped around two soldiers who were leaning on adjoining sides of a crate marked: ' _REX Corned Beef Hash; compressed_ '. Steve followed at the subalterns shoulder.

“Despatch driver for you, sir. I was able to nab him before he drove off.”

“Very good, Mister Chappel. Please see to Sarn't Lewin, he's due for relief.”

Major Frisby wasn't what Steve had expected. Rather than a career officer or Seven-Year man: One of the class of Gentleman, usually a recent University graduate who had enlisted due to family tradition or for lack of something better to do; the Major was more mature, suggesting a level of patience and self-assurance without the arrogance that often accompanies the inexperienced and impatient.

“Now, Corporal....what's your name, son?”

“Trevor, Corporal Trevor. Royal Signals, attached to 4th Infantry Division, 11th Brigade.”

“Yes. Heading back to your station?”

“That was the plan, sir. Unless you have something for me.”

“That's the question, isn't it? You see, the 49th Reserve is my Division – West Riding, Territorial Forces, 'Saturday Soldiers' and all that. Chaps 'round you lost their commander, at the time my Battalion was at rest and I was called up as acting until a new Colonel arrives. The 49th was to stand in support of the 21st – somewhere East-southeast of Gueudecourt, last was heard. And reports are the situation's bloody serious down there. We haven't heard head nor tail from them. Frankly, lad, I'm afraid the boys are catching hell.”

“I see, sir. So you are ordering me to drive down there, take a message, report on their status?”

“I'll not order you to do any such thing. I'm certain you know it's not compulsory for you to deliver any messages not ordered by your own officers. You can walk out of here and never give it a second thought. Your first service is to your unit and your C.O.; I'd expect the same loyalty from any of my men. But sometimes the job's bigger than we signed up for. You're the only despatch rider we've seen in more than a week; bloody wireless doesn't work and pigeons only good if the birds know where to go. Front lines are moving every day, son – every hour – and we can't be certain where our armies are, or the Bosch. Very risky, possibly deadly. If you _volunteer_ , you'll be doing the 49th – and the 21st – a great service. But I'll not order, nor expect, a man to put his life in peril unnecessarily.”

“Of course, I want to do my duty....it's only....”

“Take Cover! Flat!”

Voices shouted from the trenches, as well as cries from a few men in the open, as the whisper and sighs of a thousand winds rose up from the distance. If encountered on a pleasant Spring day, winds which would be as welcome as the season; but in the madness of war, winds that bring only death. Because each sigh did not represent a cooling breeze, but an artillery shell that grew in tone from whisper to whistle to wail as they neared; the screams of high-velocity shells uniting with the lumbering inevitability of trench mortars; the flat, empty beat of a dud as it lands, yet fails to explode, only feet away; echoing against the flutter of falling shrapnel in a rain of razored metal.

Around Steve, some men sheltered in place, their only precautions drawing a blanket or jacket around their face to shield their eyes from debris; accepting every barrage as inescapable and realizing there is no avoiding a shell meant for you. Major Frisby ducked under his make-shift desk; possibly not so much as a guard from artillery fire as to be protected from any further bricks that might fall from the battered wall. Steve, unaccustomed to being shelled when not on the back of a motor so he could race away, or near a familiar safe place to crawl into, thought first for his bike; because watching over his bike was equal to protecting himself. In many ways neither would exist without the other. When a shell exploded not more than twenty-five feet away, though – throwing a column of dirt, mud, smoke and debris into the air – Steve realized the flaw in that logic and ran to the nearest trench, jumping in with both feet and almost landing on top of a Sapper kneeling over a tiny cook stove, above which hung a tin can filled with steaming liquid.

“Bloody 'Ell! “Yer almost into 'me tea, ya' blasted Bulgar. Watch where'ya goin'!”

 

* * *

 

By Steve's wristwatch, the bombardment was over in less than forty minutes. Hardly even worth mentioning to those on the front lines who experience this devastation every dawn; dusk; and whenever the Hun wanted to send a reminder of their company. But this taste had been more than enough for Steve. He climbed out of his refuge – careful not to obstruct anyone returning to their post; those re-digging and repairing sections of trench that had been weakened or had collapsed; squads preparing for a German infantry assault which would – or, sometimes wouldn't – follow an artillery barrage - and the few men who just sat in place, staring at what only they could see. About him stretcher-bearers secured men to carrying boards and within folded blankets; others they attended to but quickly abandoned as these men were beyond help. At the ridge of the trench Steve passed Subaltern Chappel; laying half buried in mud, his cap knocked into the shell-hole that partially cradled his body; left arm and both legs at unreasonable angles; clutching in his right hand his drawn pistol. By the contrast of blood and grime that marred the surfaces, only now did Steve notice how neatly polished the lieutenants shoes had been.

Just a few feet from the headquarters station (which was still standing although looking worse for the wear), Steve recovered his bike, on its side but apparently undamaged. “Those Douglass' are tough”, he mumbled to himself as he started the ignition, pushed the bike a few feet down the flattest ground he could find, jumped on board and drove off.

Within an hour of driving – keeping as much as possible to forgotten roads and paths little more than single-tracks – the skies had begun to turn dark. Although 'dark' was a relative term. At home; in New York; night had brought a velvety darkness that enveloped the familiar in smooth edges and magical shadow. The few lights – gas and electric – stood out as comfortable reminders of home and warmth and anonymity for couples seeking a degree of secrecy without disgrace. But in the War, there was no darkness unpoisoned by the sudden and random explosion of artillery fire; or the scattered flashes from a sniper or nervous infantryman that briefly flared and expired just as fireflies on a summer evening: 'Just enough ta' keep ya' head down', Sergeant Wilkinson would say. The constant, white light of Very flares, illuminating the horrors of the day that by all reason nighttime should mask, sputtered above, launched into the sky at the slightest sound or movement from No Mans Land; if that movement was an enemy soldier; a wounded man struggling to return to his mates; or a pack of feral dogs eager to devour the remains of fallen men. Brilliant as the sun for no more than a few minutes, as soon as one spotlight extinguished another was sent up, eclipsing the moon and the stars; leaving no escape, even for a moment, from a man trapped on the muddy, bloody earth to gaze into the heavens.

On the Front Lines, the sight of a lone fire was uncommon. With few buildings remaining, and fewer trees, there was little to burn; and any flame would become both a light source and potential target for enemy snipers. Cooking fires; a candle to read or write by; even the match to light a cigarette meant drawing attention to yourself or your companions. It didn't take long for soldiers to recognize 'The Third Man', a superstition based on personal experience, actually refers to how unlucky it could be for the third person in a group to light his cigarette: The first man strikes the match - and draws attention of a sniper; the second lights up and the sniper takes rough aim; by the time the match reaches the Third Man, the sniper fires. So as he continued to ride toward his station and what, for now, he accepted as 'home', Steve was both intrigued; and cautious; of the campfire-like glow he spotted in the distance. As a rule despatch riders avoid driving by night unless they were certain from where they had started; where they were headed; and of any specific dangers or shelters on their route. Steve had no doubt of where he was _going_ ; but after driving around for more than a hour looking for a pigeon truck that was parked, for no apparent reason, in the middle of nowhere; and then another couple of hours to deliver said pigeons, only to be delayed by a senior officer in a discussion over some type of fools-errand; and _then_ survive a bombardment; Steve wasn't sure exactly where he'd _been_.

But he did recognize a campfire when he saw one. And this one looked abandoned; or, more likely, un-occupied. Placed near a growth of small trees and underbrush that had through fortune or favor survived, someone had set up a canvas lean-to (nothing that appeared British or French or German, Steve noted), facing toward the fire; to one side was a small stack of crates and boxes; the opposite was the edge of a crater where debris formed a small ridge. To the back, the entire scene was partially hidden by a rock overhang. He saw no horse or truck or cycle – pedal or motorized – or any way for whomever this camp belonged to, to have come; nor even any tracks of how the owner had, probably recently and temporarily, left. All in all it was a very well thought-out position. Thirty or so yards away, and with a carefully-planned escape route if that was necessary, Steve pulled up his bike, got off and approached the camp. He drew his pistol.

“...Hello?...anyone here?....despatch rider Trevor, Royal Engineers...thought I might be able to share your fire for a bit....”

Without a suggestion of warning, Steve felt the barrel of a rifle on his back.

“What do you want here? Who sent you?”

The voice was broad and cautious; yet not as low-pitched as Steve would have expected. An English speaker, with some type of accent, but not British or French or German or Flemish or Canadian or even anything American that Steve had ever heard. This was certainly a large man, from the direction of the voice; the presence Steve felt behind him; and the way the gun pressed into his spine and not lower down into his kidneys.

“I, uh, I'm just driving through, heading back to my HQ. Saw your fire, thought I might warm up for a bit...if I'm intruding, happy to be on my way.”

“Move to the fire. Let me see you without shadow.”

The two walked the short distance toward the light.

“Huh. Náápiikoan. Do you bring others?”

Steve, hands raised to show he carried no threat, slowly turned to face his inquisitor. Before him wasn't a man, as much as a negative form in the shape of a man which stood undistinguished even from the surrounding twilight: From head to foot dressed in black – or, in the flickering firelight at least varying shades of black, grey and brown, with an almost imperceptible shimmer of metal or polished stone around his neck.

“Others? Other men? No, just me. Maybe I'm a little lost...just trying to get back...”

The big man lowered his rifle – an older model, not Army, Steve noticed; at least not anything used in this war - and motioned toward the fire.

“Sit. There is coffee in the pot.” He nodded toward Steve's hand. “Do you think you will shoot me?”

Steve hadn't realized he'd been, all along, holding his pistol and could have equaled the man at any time. Odd, too, that he'd not been asked or ordered to drop his gun or hand it over. Steve replaced the pistol to its holster; knelt on one knee beside the fire, and rubbed his hands above the flames.

“No, sorry, just habit. Can't be too careful.”

The big man moved opposite Steve, the fire between them, and sat on a log that had been previously set in place. “I am careful, but you are here.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, like I said. Just passin' by.”

Many moments fell in silence. Not as dangerous – _probably_ – thought Steve, as sitting out a barrage; but just as uncomfortable.

“You are 'Trevor'? You fight for the English? You do not look English.”

“Steve, Steve Trevor. I'm _with_ the British – Signal Corps, 4th Army – but I'm American. And I don't _fight_ , really. Not when I can avoid it!”

Steve's attempt at humor had no effect. The man across from him adjusted the coffee pot hanging above the flames.

“I'm a despatch... uh, a messenger. Take orders and reports from one place to another.”

“What other place do you go now?”

“Back to my station – my Headquarters. Just came from Ovillers-la-Boisselle. Had to drop off some...important material.”

“There is much fighting there. The soldiers, they didn't need you to carry anything back?”

“Uh, I was ordered to complete my mission and return.” This conversation was getting a little uncomfortable for Steve, and one-sided. He found a cup sitting next to the embers, filled it from the pot and took a sip. The coffee wasn't bad; he'd had worse; but it was hot.

“How about you? What army you with? Like I said, my name's Steve....I can call you...?”

The large man lifted his head and for the first time, looked directly into Steve's eyes.

“I am with no army. I am of the People. We have nowhere to call home. We fight no more.”

He lowered his head, more intent on the fire – or his own thoughts – than toward Steve.

“Yeah we all feel like that one way or another. So what are you dong out here? German's take your land?”

“My land is over the ocean. It was taken not by the Germans but by others. All men not of the People are the same. You would not understand my name. You can call me 'Chief'.”

“'Chief'?...then you're from the US? Indian?”

“I am of the People.”

“Sure, I get it. Small world, huh? Meeting you here? And you're a...trader? An aid worker?”

Steve stopped at naming his companion as a 'trafficker' or 'profiteer'; one of the country-less men who, in any war throughout history, followed armies buying from one and selling to another; profiting from the confusion and wreckage of men eager for a fragment of comfort; exploiting the misery of men desperate to touch and hold and possess something which reminds them of home and life and sanity.

“I bring men what they need. There is no better place.”

“Uh-huh.” _A profiteer_ , thought Steve. But his coffee's hot and the fires warm and there are men out here doing much worse.

“Don't think you'd have anything I need. Just about everything I own, I'm wearing. Got my bike, and once I get back to HQ....”

“To go to your station is what you need?”

“Sure. Those are my orders. Only reason I stopped now is 'cause it's getting dark, and I needed to check my bearings, and I saw your fire. Be on my way; thanks for the coffee.”

Steve stood and moved toward his motorcycle, yet continued facing the fire and the odd figure illuminated in its glow. Steve wanted to absorb as much of the flames' warmth as possible; and keep from turning his back, for as long as possible, toward the stranger. He held his right hand ready to reach for his pistol, if necessary.

Chief didn't move from the fire; although he had more to say.

“Sometimes the place a man wants to go is not the place he should be.”

“Yeah....I suppose. Never wanted to be stuck in a war in the middle of France, but here I am.”

“And sometimes the place a man is, can be no better.” Chief stirred the coals with a stick. “A man must decide if he will choose his place, or the place will choose him.”

“Uh-huh. Well, good luck, thanks again, uh 'Chief'.” He started his bike, pushed it forward a few feet – running a bit faster than his usual starts – jumped on, and drove away. It wasn't until he'd progressed a few miles past the camp could he breath easy.

“Wonder what kind of Medicine-man hokum he was trying to sell”, Steve mumbled to himself. “Decent coffee, though.”

 

* * *

 

Judges Rhadamanthys looks up from the reflections that Judge Minos had presented.

“A boy does not obey his father. A youth forsakes his friend. A soldier becomes weak of heart. All are failings of mankind that warrant neither punishment nor reward. There is nothing you have shown us to distinguish this man from any other. Are you trying to convince us he should not be judged as one of neither esteem nor reproach; but he is in fact among men who are corrupt and without conscience; unworthy of even The Asphodel Meadows?”

“Not at all, brothers. This is just the setting; view the results. What we have seen are only the mans _actions_ ; what is yet to behold are the _consequences_ of these actions, both on those whom he has affected, and to the man himself. I believe we may see why the Olympians have singled this man out above others.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

Dianas options were few and her tasks many. She knew in order to enter the realms of the Underworld, she must locate one of its many entrances; some on land, some by water; and all guarded within and without. While told of in stories, Diana did not know where these entrances lay, nor what creatures she may encounter; but she was confident the way would be found. She was aware that no one could; or _should_ ; stand before Hades himself without presenting an offering; and as this is wintertide, when Persephone is fated to remain at the side of the ruler of the Underworld as his wife, it would be wise to deliver a gift for her also. Just what these gifts were to be, Diana was unsure. From the stories of her mother, she remembered that within the realms of the Underworld the dead can be committed to three destinies: Elysium, reserved for Heroes and those above reproach; The Asphodel Meadows, a place of neither good nor bad but only a mindless existence; and Tartarus, where the most evil forever suffer torment and pain. But for all who attempt access to the worlds below – including those, as Steve, who died without the proper ceremonies and payment for the ferryman Cheron – they would be doomed to drift in the plain between worlds, souls slowly fading into nothingness. Although the stories also tell of those who are wise or brave or cunning who found a way without payment. So Diana could not be certain where she would find Steve; or even in which of the realms to start searching. But the answers would make themselves known. She recalled that in all she had been taught no one had ever undertaken a crossing into Hades unaccompanied; in all such stories these Heroes had at their sides other men, or even gods. Diana had only herself. But that is not a problem to be considered now. And she realized she needed to obtain another sword and shield – one destroyed, the other lost - to replace those with which she had started her journey. Her mother would not be happy with this.

So Diana, accompanied only by a small black satchel that carried the few items she was not wearing, stood at the head of a boarding ramp connected to a ship at the port of Southampton. She faced a disinterested-looking soldier seated behind a simple white wooden table, one large pile of paperwork to his left and a much smaller stack at his right.

“Name?”

“Diana. Diana...

...Prince. Is it true this ship is sailing to the island of Cyprus?”

“By way of Alexandria, Miss. Do you have your credentials? It's a hospital ship, not a pleasure cruise. Hauling cargo on the way out, but comin' back with war wounded. You a nurse?”

Diana did not know what 'credentials' she needed to be a nurse, but as a child she had carefully watched Epione and Althea tend to her cuts and scrapes....and she had read all 58 known volumes of the Hippocratic Corpus, many written by Hippocrates himself. Surely this would count as some recommendation.

“I have many years studying medicine and the care of those in need. When are you departing?”

“Not so fast, Miss, I need to see your papers. Nursing certificate, hospital references, military discharge, all them important documents. You know the drill.”

“All I have is with me. Just the clothes I wear and this satchel. All else I lost...in the War.”

While not directly referring to the 'papers' this soldier wanted, Diana was telling the truth that much of what was important she had lost during the war. Her home. Her mother. Steve. All she was on her way to recover.

“What's this, corporal? A volunteer? Jolly good, we need as many as will sign on.”

From round the corner a sharply-uniformed officer appeared. Similar in age and appearance to many of the generals Diana had encountered during that feeble showing of 'leadership' at British Army Headquarters a few weeks ago, she was reassured to see that this officer, at least, had the courage to come out from behind a desk.

“I was just askin' for her papers, Doctor, but it seems she can't provide what's necessary...”

“I see. Quite the disappointment. She looks rather capable. You say you're a nurse? Lets see if she meets _my_ qualifications. A patient is brought on, sorry chap, has no obvious wounds but suffering from disorientation, clouded thoughts, the shakes...what care would you provide?”

“I have seen this before. Too much has been asked of this man than he had to give. There is nothing left of who he was; only an empty shell. He must be shown love, and compassion, and caring. Only then will his burden be lifted and he will once again be whole.”

“Smashing! Not precisely _clinical_ , but then the stories' in the results, not the process, by Jove. Lets try another: Ghastly wound, poor chap was all but given up on in the field but he managed to pull through. Still needs an operation and months of recuperation. Sees himself as only half a man. Frightened his family won't accept him. How do you treat a wound that's carried in a mans soul?”

“All men are frightened. Even the most brave have doubts. In order to be accepted; be loved by others, you must accept yourself. While a body may change, the spir... – the _soul_ – remains as it always has been. This wounded man must learn to cherish his soul. If his family truly cares for him, they will love him for who he is, not as he appears.”

“Quite spiffing. I've always thought not enough attention is paid to healing a man's mind. We can treat the body; but the brain, that's a whole other game, wouldn't you agree?”

In her short time among men, Diana had noticed that these English often heard what they wanted to hear, and not exactly what was said.

“You wouldn't happen to understand French, would you? Or any of those Eastern languages? Wounded coming aboard who've been treated by..... _foreign_ doctors and sometimes we can't, um, we have difficulties reading the men's records. Been told to use only proper English but can't quite make the bludgers understand.”

“Yes, I know many languages.”

“Capitol! Corporal, we can't let some bureaucratic army paperwork keep us from gaining such a qualified nurse. Sign her into the log and assign her a cabin.”

“If that's an order, Colonel, but it is slightly unusual...”

“Nonsense. Just fill out the forms and I'll make certain they get to the right places. No need for concern on your part. There's a lad. And Miss; what is your name, again?”

“Diana. Diana Prince.”

 

* * *

 

 

Theft report, HM Corps of Military Mounted Police, Division of Provost Marshall

 

Recording Officer: M. Conn, TSM, CEF, MMP, LO Date: 22 November, 1918

 

 

Date of Alleged Offense: 10 November, 1918

 

Location of Alleged Offense: Kasteel Cortewalle (Castle), appx 12km due west Antwerp, BL

 

Name of Complainant: Grables, Fausta

 

Address and contact information of Complainant:

Complainant is a German citizen. All contact must be routed through Foreign Office by way of War Office through Division of the Adjutant-General.

 

Description of item(s) alleged to have been stolen:

Dress, fancy ballgown, blue silk with matching blue silk train. Open back. Complainant states alleged assailant did not take handbag, jewels, hair ornaments, or any other valuables, only dress.

 

Description of alleged assailant:

Female, approximately 25 – 27 years; height appx. 69 inches; brown hair to shoulder; brown eyes; no identifying features (complainant states assailant was 'striking'). At time of alleged assault complainant states assailant was clothed in (womens) undergarments consisting of a corset, red with gold trim, made of metal or leather; blue knickers; red and gold boots that reached above the knee; a black wool or cotton cloak, sleeved, with hood; silver bracelets; and a gold headband.

 

Additional Information:

Complainant (a German citizen) states she had attempted to file report with the local Belgian authorities but was told the incident occurred on property under, at that time, Imperial control and must be assigned to the German authorities. She then attempted to contact the German authorities but was unable to locate anyone who accepted the responsibility; nor was she able to file any report as she could locate no German officer who would record her testimony or 'had time' for her. Complainant states she was told to 'take it up with the British'. Complainant is returning to Germany within the next ten days and 'does not understand' how she can be treated in this manner and believes she is a 'war victim'. In the opinion of the recording officer complainant is very bitter and believes she is being mistreated. In view that this has been reported as a simple theft and the assailant is unknown to the complainant (and is most likely a person displaced or with no permanent address); and the complainant has stated she will soon no longer be residing in any province of Belgium, nor any area under Allied authority; it is recommended no further actions be taken unless additional evidence is forthcoming.

 

Witnessed and Submitted:

 

Complainant

Fausta Grables, November 22, 1918

 

Recording Officer

M. Conn, TSM, CEF, MMP, LO 22 November 1918

 

 

* * *

 

Aboard the HMH S _Devanha_ , built in 1905 as a cargo liner and fitted with a reasonable amount of passenger comforts, virtually all excess had been removed or converted to care for the wounded. While fragments of the ships former luxuries remained – hand carved café nooks re-fittted into single or double patient cots; spacious library shelving now holding carefully folded sheets, towels and bandages; and the bulk of the third floor dining room, once opulent and uncrowded, now filled with head-to-toe beds, leaving only a space between each row fit for one person to squeeze through. Countless seas of white, now fresh and pristine, awaiting endless numbers of broken and shattered men. The only contrast to this scene was a stunning, polished grand piano resting on an elevated platform in the rear of the hall. It wasn't obvious if this had been left in place because it was bolted to the floor or it was too cumbersome to remove; but the reason was pointless, as the instrument was now surrounded and stacked with starched linens and massed lifebelts.

Almost immediately after Diana had signed a few pieces of paper; all of which, and more, had been given to her in duplicate; another soldier arrived to escort her to her room.

“Yer, lucky, Miss, this ones' a nice outside cabin with a porthole. Sun's peering in now but as soon as it gets past noon should be snug as a bug in here. There's only seven other nurses aboard, so you'll be havin this all to yourself, too. At least on the way to Egypt, that is. All of us might be sharin' beds on the way back!”

Having never before been in the company of men, Diana did not recognize flirting – or inappropriate suggestions – but from her studies of Cleos Treatises, she was aware men frequently offer to 'share a bed' only when they have things in mind other than rest.

“I'm certain my room will be fine. And if you need a place to sleep, I believe there are many available locations on deck.”

“Of course, Miss. Didn' mean anythin' by it. All nurses are asked to report to Matron as soon as they've unpacked and got things settled. Is there anythin' else you'll be needin'?”

“No, thank you. You've been quite helpful. Where is the room of this 'Matron'?”

“Two decks up, cabin 414. Stairs' at the end of the passageway. Have to pass 'round the kitchen, and hallway 'E' will take you to the fancy dinin' room – main hospital ward. Past that, 'C' hallway up the stairs to get to the officers' cabins. When they built this ship they was design' it for elegant dinners, not haulin' wounded. Good day, Miss.”

Themyscira does not have a standing Navy. Amazons, as a rule, do not build, sail, nor even feel comfortable on ships other than the small boats devoted to fishing or study of sea-life. In each story told, the Amazons relied upon their neighbors on Cyprus, for generations experienced sea-faring peoples, for transportation whenever it became necessary for the Amazonian army to travel far beyond their home. So for Diana, not only was navigating the multiple hallways, passages, ladders and confusing maze of compartments challenging; she was also feeling a bit unsteady due to the constant but gentle rocking of the floor beneath her feet. Unless she regained her composure quickly, she did not want to consider how she would feel when the ship actually began to sail. But the soldier; actually not much older than a youth; had provided excellent direction and soon Diana was knocking on door 414.

“Enter.”

'Matron' was a formidable-looking woman; wearing a neatly-pressed grey dress with white collar and large, almost sail-like starched white cap; sitting behind a studiously-organized desk; within a functionally-furnished room. Other than the dark-wood desk, the only furnishings Diana noticed were a small wardrobe; crisply-made bed; drawered cabinet; and a small table with two side chairs. Just two framed images on the walls – one, a document holding many signatures and the image of a large, red cross; and the other, a painting of a solemn looking bearded man; could be considered any type of decoration.

“Hello,...Matron? I am Diana Prince, the Colonel at the entry told me....”

“Doctor Hawkins?! Choosing my nurses for me, again? He and I will be havin' a talk about that. But you are here now and the Doctor is no fool so I will have to assume if you pass his standards, you must know your business. We sail tomorrow morning. Any 'goodbyes' or personal business you need to complete no later than five o’clock this afternoon. Dinner's at seven-thirty on the mark and I expect all my nurses to be seated not only on our first night, but every night.”

“I have nothing personal I need to attend to.”

“Very good. You will be workin' with seven other ladies, all but one have completed multiple cruises; the last is an experienced nurse but new to the sea. You served on one of His Majesties ships before? You're looking a little off-kilter.”

“No, I've generally remained on land. But I do know how to swim.”

“Lets hope it doesn’t come to that. You and Miss Brieson will have to find your sea legs. Hopefully before we take on wounded. There are five doctors aboard: You've met Colonel Hawkins, he's the officer in command. We also have two Majors; one's a whisk at amputations, I've been told. One Captain; and a Subaltern, just completed University so this is chiefly a training voyage for him. Of course the dressers and aides. Just as in any hospital, the doctors give the orders and we provide the care. You'll meet everyone within the next day or so. I'm Matron Fainín. I don't stand by titles and ceremony for you VAD girls, but the Army officers will expect their honoraries. Here's a copy of the ship rules; _my_ rules; and your schedule. Just do as you're told, provide the best care you are able, behave as a young lady and a representative of the Medical Profession and the Crown, and we'll get along famously.”

“Then...you are the... _boss_?”

“I'm the _ MATRON  _ , girl.”

“You can wear your outdoor uniform on the trip out, but once we pick up wounded I expect all my Nurses to dress only in their whites and blues. Always kept pressed and spit-spot. Helps the mens morale, you know, to see that.”

Diana was familiar with a 'uniform'; it is what Charlie wore. But in green and brown, not white and blue. And she had no uniform in any color. She certainly did not possess a spitspot.

“The only clothing I have is what I wear. The war...”

“You will be makin' yourself a handful. Go down to ships stores and pick up your kit. Get what you need, we've enough. I don't want to hear any Olagonin' later.”

“Yes, thank you.”

At first Diana was concerned that she did not have the money for the clothing and 'kit' the ships' store had to offer. Each time she and Etta had gone shopping in London, Etta encouraged her to select additional outfits, that 'Steve would have wanted you to have the things you need, dear'; but Diana saw neither the need, nor the use, of anything other than the functional grey skirt, jacket, and black hat she had been wearing. When necessary, she washed her white cotton blouse; and of course, she was never without her armour so both the cost, and the _unreasonableness_ of expecting a woman to bear these 'fashions' that appeared to be designed only for appearance with little care to comfort or utility was beyond Diana's comprehension. How she would pay for a uniform, along with the white and blue clothing, she didn't know. However, when reaching the store (which was not anything like the stores in London; but more like a small window opening into a storage closet, manned by a ships crewman), Diana only mentioned her name and that the Matron had sent her, before the sailor ambled off among the array of shelves, crates and boxes, returning with an armload of dresses, aprons, shirts, stockings, jackets, undergarments and other pieces she didn't recognize; the mound topped with a blue, wide-brimmed hat little different from what she was wearing. The sailor dropped the stack on the counter, and Diana didn't know how, or why, she could manage to wear all these items.

“I'm sayin' large, 'bout a 10. That right?”

As Etta had selected everything Diana had tried on, she didn't know under what number she should be identified.

“Ah yes, that's correct.”

“Do ya' need shoes? What's issued isn't the best quality and you'll be standin' on your feet all day. If you have your own, 'tis best to wear those.”

“I have the boots I'm wearing.”

The sailor leaned out of his window to inspect Diana's footwear.

“Hmm. Brown. Black is the standard. Try to keep Matron from noticin' your feet and you should be fine. If you need a pair come see me. We got one outdoor uniform: Norfolk suit, dark blue, leather belt, one blue felt hat. One Ulster, dark blue; one cape, Red Cross. One raincoat. One Trench, blue. Two dresses, grey, physical training. Six uniform dresses, blue. Two shirtwaists, white. One blue flannel waist. Eight collars, soft. Six caps. Six pair brassards. Six aprons. Six pair stockings, black. Six sets ladies undergarments. One pair shoes, canvas physical training. One pair tan gloves. One set insignia, medical and VAD Kings Service. Sign here.”

This is the most clothing Diana had possessed in her entire life. This day had also been the most times she had inscribed her name on any document, particularly strange as each time she had to remember to add 'Prince' following the usual, simple 'Diana' she had been taught to write by her tutors.

“I don't know how I will pay you for these, but perhaps if I promise to send you a portion at a time....”

“Oh, on the razz, are we? Let's just say I'm _lendin'_ these to you, and when you're finished with 'em you just bring 'em back, even-steven.”

“Thank you, you are a very good man.”

 

* * *

 

Diana set the pile of uniform and 'kit' on her bed while she reviewed the ship rules and schedule Matron had handed her:

For those on Daytime duties: (Consult daily Ward schedule for changes)

Rise no later than 7AM. Wash and prepare for day

7:15 Morning exercise on Quarter Deck aft of Captains Quarters. In case of inclement weather, exercise will be relocated to Officers dining room

7:45 Return to cabin; dress for daily schedule

8:15 Morning Prayer in Group Compartment 'C' (frmr. Gentlemen's smoking room)

8:45 Breakfast in Officers dining room

9:30 Rounds. Refer to Ward schedule

1:00 – 2:00 Luncheon in Officers dining room. Luncheon will be available _À la carte_ for those engaged in duties

2:00 Boat and lifesaving drill. Additional drills may be scheduled _per_ Captains discretion

2:30 Rounds. Refer to Ward schedule

5:00 Tea. Wardsmen will deliver at your current posts. Those unassigned may partake in the Officers dining room

5:30 Lecture and Training. Refer to Ward schedule

7:30 Evening meal in Officers dining room

8:30 Lecture and Training. Refer to Ward schedule

9:30 Final rounds

10:00 Change of shift

11:30 Lights out

Nighttime duties will be coordinated between Matron and Doctor on duty. Schedule will be posted each morning no later than 7:00AM. Appropriate dining times will be provided. All nurses assigned Night duty are exempt from morning exercise and daily lectures for the duration of their shift. All shipboard must promptly report for all boat and lifesaving drills.

She tossed the paper to the floor.

“This is not unlike how my days were prepared as a child! Surely this... _ship_...does not expect women to heed a schedule that accounts for your every moment!

But I am no longer a child. I cannot dash away whenever I do not agree with something. To fulfill my duty; achieve my purpose; I must follow the path before me.”

Diana reached for the paper and thoughtfully set it, upright, into a shallow rack beside her bed.

While uncertain of just what each of these pieces of clothing was, how they should be worn, or even what to make of a 'brassard', Diana did her best to try on each item, by themselves and in combination, to be certain they at least fit her frame and did not constrict her movements. While, generally, the sizes of each item were correct; in some areas a bit too large; in others a little too small; at least she was able to wear everything over her armour; she could move as she wanted; and the collars did not choke. She was able to identify the 'outdoor uniform' - the same outfit Matron had cited as acceptable – only because of what the store clerk had described. Setting aside the numerous shirtwaists; collars; aprons; dresses and other articles, Diana was reasonably satisfied she was wearing the dark blue uniform correctly only because of its similarity to her familiar grey suit. She had just begun to button her new jacket when a soft, almost apologetic knock sounded as the door opened just enough for a slightly flustered face to peek in.

“Hello? Is there anybody here?”

“I am Diana. Is there something I can... _help_ you with?”

“Oh, Hi! I'm Abigail. Abigail Brieson. My room is just down the hallway and I don't know if anyone was in this room, there are so few of us aboard, and I was looking for an electric iron and thought there might be one here, or even an extra tap because I only have one light in my room and I can't turn on the light and use the iron at the same time.”

“No, I do not have an 'iron'.”

“Oh.” Having been at first surprised to find anyone occupying this cabin; and second, that not only did this person not have an iron but her only belongings appeared to be the piles of clothing thrown about the bed; Abigail fished for something to say that would continue on the theme of 'clothing', yet allow her to make a quick exit if her sudden appearance had been inappropriate.

“I've been altering my uniforms. The sleeves are far too long and the waist is too big and the chest is a little small but the length is just right. Isn't that funny? Did you sew your uniform? It all fits and looks better than anything I could do.”

“Perhaps only because it is new. I am just trying these things, I am not familiar with some of the uniform items....”

The wearing of jewelry is not unknown to the Amazons, but neither is it common. In her weeks in London, Diana noticed virtually all women; and some men; choose to adorn themselves in gold, silver and precious stones. Perhaps, she thought, this is how they keep their wealth close to them. Women, particularly, seem enamored with various pins, clasps, and tokens set into their hair. Not knowing exactly what the metal badges she was issued signify; or how they are intended to be worn; she struggled to clip one into her hair; while trying to behave exactly as though she was not struggling; so her guest would not think Diana had not done this hundreds of times before.

“Not like that, silly! Here, let me help you.”

Abigail purposefully, but with care, pushed open the door just enough for her to fit through the opening.

“These go on your lapels. Every time you change your uniform you're expected to take them off and put them on again. I don't know why they don't issue one for each outfit.”

While not a petite woman, yet almost a head shorter than Diana, Abigail reached up to remove the half-entangled pin from Diana’s hair, placing it on her lapel and sealing the clasp. Abigail smelled of lavender and peppermint, and her skin was far lighter and smoother than what was accepted among the Amazons. Her lips, which brushed near Diana’s neck each time Abigail looked up to speak, were flush with a red Diana had not before seen. For the first time, Diana considered what others may think of her tawny complexion; and of any odors her body produced, yet she had failed to recognize.

“There you are! Where's the other one, I'll set that for you, too. Don't you have any combs? Your hair is so long and wavy, I'm jealous. Mine just hangs like a mop unless I dress it _every day_ or hide it under a hat. If you don't have any combs I can lend you some. Are you still wearing your corset? Once we're in rounds you'll be happy to be rid of that contraption. None of the nurses I know wear one – not at least while they're working – and I don't think anyone here will care, either. Actually there's a _lot_ of us girls that aren't wearing them at all, any more. I don't think Matron has worn one in years! But maybe you wouldn’t exactly describe Matron as 'one of us girls'. Well, I'll be going now, there has to be an iron somewhere on board. You probably want to hang your clothes and freshen up. Sit with you at dinner?”

It's not that Abigail, generally, would be considered over-friendly; annoying; or obnoxious; those that have experienced her... _energy_ have described her as 'engaging'; 'high-spirited'; and 'full of life'. As far as Abigail is concerned, she's simply not wishy-washy.

“Yes”, Diana replied, “That would be fine. And if you have any of your lavender I could borrow....or the combs...?”

“Ya' got it!”

Clearly, Diana considered, I have much to learn. She would start by taking a bath; or, as appears the custom in the world of man, a shower.

 

* * *

 

“...and we ask these Blessings in Your cause, Amen.”

When Diana had noticed the '8:15 Morning Prayer in Group Compartment 'C' (frmr. Gentlemen's smoking room)' on the ships schedule, she assumed that would be the only formal ritual period on board. During her few weeks in London she had found that most of the population thought it was adequate to express devotion when it was convenient for them, and not necessarily when it would be favored by the gods. On Themyscira recognition and gratitude to the gods is simply a part of everyday life; one does not seek the gods, as the gods are always present. So when Matron asked all the women sitting for dinner to 'bow your heads in prayer', Diana did not know to which god, specifically, they were bowing to; but she assumed it was in acknowledgment of one of the gods that would ensure the safety of their voyage; or in thanks for the food that had been set before them; or for some other specific declaration of duty. But when Matron began expressing not thankfulness but adoration; the 'glory' and 'power' of god; the 'punishment he has meted out against those who had transgressed' and other things Diana could not interpret, she began to wonder just what type of ritual this was. As a child she had been taught that among the world of man there are many beliefs; many religions; and in fact mankind has fought wars and millions have died in the 'name' of god. Despite this irreverence, her tutors had stressed that among all beliefs there may be an element of truth; each man must find his own way and it is not for us to judge, but to respect the beliefs of others; and if possible try to find the truth in each. Still, it was difficult to concede there was anything to be learned from a belief that set the god of one man above the gods of all others; and, when all men are the same, that the god worshiped by those in the 'right' would punish those in the 'wrong'. Many times Etta had invited her to church services: “It can't hurt, dear.” Not understanding exactly what _church_ is; and why the god of the English can only be found in a building; each time Diana refused. Perhaps, she now thought, I should have accepted, if only to sympathize.

“Matron, will you be saying these prayers every night before dinner?”

“Of course, Miss Prince. Rev. Smithchild will be presiding over morning devotionals. Would you like to lead the prayers, one evening?”

“Oh, no thank you. I was just wondering. I don't think I could express myself as well as you.”

“If you change your mind, just tell me. Plenty of time for all to have an opportunity. Remember, ladies, while we are among the Doctors and ships officers I expect all of you on your best behavior.”

Despite Diana's slight leaning to the left and attempts to make it appear she was sitting in a single chair while actually trying to adjust her body to partially occupy a second, it was impossible to disguise the empty seat beside her. Particularly from Matron, who seemed to be most aware of what one was most trying to conceal.

“And Miss Brieson...has anyone seen Miss Brieson? I believed I made it clear all my nurses will be seated promptly at 7:30. Nonetheless, I will take that up with her later. Enjoy your dinner, ladies.”

The Officer's Dining room of the HMHS _Devanha_ had been designed for a table seating not more than ten; a sitting area composed of three overstuffed chairs and two small side tables; a gaming table sized to accommodate up to four chairs; and a small library/maps/study. So when the ship was re-fitted for hospital duty, all furnishings were removed except the largest dining table, while two smaller tables each with space for six were fitted together in the remaining area. While providing adequate dining for the ships' officers; hospital staff; two or three accompanying military of high rank; and Rev. Smithchild; the arrangement left little space between tables or between the seating and the walls. From Dianas viewpoint, this placed the main cabin door about eight feet in front of her, and to her left; while the entrance was directly across from Matrons place at the head of the table. Which proved inconvenient when the door slowly and softly opened, revealing Abigails head peering around the opening.

“Welcome, Miss. I trust there are no problems I should be aware of?”

“No, Matron. Sorry I'm late, I..uh..the ship is big and I'm not familiar with all the hallways and different levels and I must have been turned around.”

“Now that you know your way, we can expect you to be on time in the future.”

“Yes, Matron.” Abigail found her place next to Diana and sat down.

“Miss Prince, as you and Miss Brieson have yet to become accustomed to living shipboard; perhaps you can assist one another as you settle in?”

“Of course”, answered Diana. “I will be happy to help.”

As if she was revealing a breathless secret, Abigail leaned toward Diana and whispered into her ear:

“Diana, I left some things in your room. I brought the lavender and the combs – one is _really_ pretty with butterflies on it and it would match your hair better than mine - and when we were visiting this afternoon I noticed you...didn't have much....so I grabbed a few other things but wasn't sure what you needed and by the time I decided what to bring it was nearly time for dinner so I just dropped everything on your dressing table and ran up here. I hope that's OK? If there's anything you need I forgot just let me know.”

With just as little fanfare as when she had entered, instantly Abigail regained her composure. Other than the wisps of blonde hair that had come loose from the pins securing her Gibson rolls, she became as unremarkable as any of the other, identically-dressed and of similar demeanor, seven ladies that shared the table. For someone so unmistakable, Abigail was adept at making herself inconspicuous.

“Would someone pass the Brussels sprouts, please?”

 

* * *

 

Following dinner, Matron stated that as the ship had not yet received any wounded or other passengers in need, the work schedule would be adjusted so all duty periods would, until further notice, be designated as 'open time'. She stressed that these times would be best devoted to reading, study, and familiarizing oneself with the ship, co-workers, and duties. To Abigail, this meant she could devote the remainder of the evening to visiting with Diana.

“Thank you but I'm not certain I need all this...in my home we don't use so many things...and you must be giving of your own, so that you can lend me these...”

The accumulation of canisters, packages, tins, boxes, envelopes, pins and combs Diana found sitting atop her dressing table was more, she thought, than enough to serve every woman on board. While she stood in front of the dresser carefully examining each item, Abigail - only after being invited in, Diana noted – settled alongside into the one chair provided to each cabin.

“Oh, Diana, don't be a goose!”

Diana had never been called a _goose_ before, and didn't know if that referred to her ability to swim, or to fight. But Abigail would not know of either of those skills. Perhaps it was a name friends use among each other, in familiarity as among a flock of geese, as the Amazons refer to one another as sisters?

Abigail continued: “I didn't know exactly where I would be assigned or where I was going or what I would need, so I had to think ahead and be prepared. Plus you don't know what you won't be able to find away from civilization so maybe I overpacked, just a bit. What do you think you won't need?”

Dipping her finger into a jar containing an oddly-colored compound, Diana noted “This cream...it seems rather thick and I don't know...”

“That's deodorant, Diana. For under your arms. You don't want to be stinky all day.”

“And this powder. It is like dust. Is it for drying your body of sweat?”

“Well...I guess you could say that. When your nose is shiny, or your forehead or your neck, you use this puff like this....and Poof! No more shiny. Plus that's the lavender you asked for.”

“Yes, it is very pleasant. It reminds me of you.”

“Just look through everything and try anything. That's part of the fun! I know you can figure it all out, but we can try different things together! Just remember, the key is to use everything you need, but not make it look like you use anything. It's easy!”

Reaching for the small tin of scented powder Abigail had demonstrated, Diana noticed the 'puff' was made of soft, loose down feathers from a type of waterfowl....or goose! That was it – yes, the goosey-feathers for the dusty-powder. It all made sense, now.


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

Despite the schedule that had been carefully and fully arranged, the nurses soon discovered the outbound journey of a hospital ship does not fill ones time. While Matron had adjusted the thoroughly-planned daily agenda so that, as long as the ship was not actually transporting wounded, all times assigned to ward duty were freed for other activities; there weren't generally that many other activities to occupy the available time. Each period originally designated as hospital assignment; along with several occasions when lecture and training was scheduled only to be canceled or postponed; became _unscheduled_ time, when the women had little to do other than stroll the decks; play card and board games; choose among the limited books remaining in the ships library (most of which had to do with politics; poems filled with rhyme more than meaning; or various adventures among the 'savages'); or otherwise find ways to entertain themselves. This was particularly true for five of the seven nurses inboard the _Devanha_ (excluding Matron; for she was not so much a nurse, as she was _Matron_ ), who had completed prior voyages and did not need to accustom themselves to the ship, the hospital facilities, or their duties; and did not need to adapt to the sounds, smells, clamor and continual motion of a moving steamer. Indeed, an impression of relief was carried by most everyone, crew and medical staff alike, who were more acquainted with the possibility of a German submarine attack at any moment or coming upon an uncharted minefield. So while Diana and Abigail found much of their time together, due to Matrons suggestion that the two young women assist each other during the passage and both had discovered they enjoyed one another's company; for the majority of the personnel the journey from England to Egypt was more a pleasure cruise than duty.

“I was told this was not a 'pleasure cruise',” declared Diana, as much to herself as to Abigail, walking at her side; or perhaps she voiced her displeasure to the gods; or toward no one and anyone nearby; as she and her companion hastened around the deck. Both were nearly identical from head to toe in their blue 'outdoor uniform', complete with brimmed felt hat; although one wore brown boots and the other black. “We have been sailing for five days and much of the time has been spent in diversion and folly. Even the daily boat and sentry training is not taken seriously. Each time the alarm sounds I dress in the quilted vest and rush to the small boats; but the other women seem to think it is unimportant. They take their time and carry the vests in their hands. They talk and twitter among themselves; even orders from the Captain do not inspire them. I have heard them saying I am an 'afraid cat'. And I am neither afraid, nor a cat.”

“Diana, don't walk so fast! I can barely keep up. And don't think twice about being called a 'fraidy-cat' or a 'scaredy-cat' or any of those things the girls might say. They've all been at sea when the enemy could pop up anywhere and learning how to save someone who fell overboard and dashing to the lifeboats and doing the drills was life-and-death. They remember how it felt when a German submarine could have torpedoed the ship or they could have hit a mine or even a German battleship might have caught them. Miss Rowell – the girl that's always fiddling with her hat – she lost a friend, you know, a fellow nurse, when the darned Bosch attacked the Lusitania and all those innocent people died. Maybe everyone's not _too_ serious now, because now they're _not_ afraid. And if they say you're a 'scaredy-cat' it's not to be mean; maybe they just think you're a little too... _intense_. Sometimes it makes people uncomfortable, and you can be really serious and a little unsettling. Particularly when you're around people you don't know too well....They're all very nice, really.”

Reaching the rear of the ship, Diana rounded the deck. She strode past two nurses sitting on either side of a small table which held a board covered in alternating white and black squares. Randomly throughout the board were black and white tokens the women were lifting and moving about. “A game similar to petteia”, thought Diana. “But each stone is carved into the shape of a column. Odd.”

Abigail took advantage of the somewhat shorter inside corner to catch up with her friend.

“Please Diana, I can't take as long steps as you! This is the third time we've walked all the way around and you aren't tired yet? Look, here's two chairs just calling out our names. Wouldn’t it be nice to sit and watch the sea pass by? Over there! It's a flying fish! And another! Can't you just _enjoy_ it, Diana?”

“Sorry, I am not accustomed to being so idle and....unnecessary. In my home, everyone has a duty, and there is purpose to all we do. Having nothing to do is unheard of. These days on the ship are too many. I am too unlike these women. Even during morning training sessions, they follow my lead, but they do not appear to appreciate my leadership.”

Abigail dropped into a latticework chaise, and Diana selected a seat beside her. Although the ship was approaching the Straits of Gibraltar and the weather was becoming temperate – at least more comfortable than the wintry England they departed less than a week ago – there was enough chill in the air to appreciate the woolen blankets both women took from a nearby bin and placed around their legs.

“See, isn't this nice? I could just sit here all afternoon and listen to the sounds of the water and smell the ocean breezes and drift off into my own little world. You know, Diana, there is still a week, maybe longer, before we reach Alexandria. Maybe you could visit with some of the other nurses, get to know them, maybe make friends. The only reason Matron asked you to lead the morning exercises is because you seem to be so...athletic. And I might have mentioned to her you were feeling out of place and wanted some responsibility....and I think I mentioned something about how you really like to be active and you'd be very good at leading the morning exercises... She thought it might be a way for you to associate with everyone and fit in. And you're so good at it! By the time we reach Cyprus we'll all be in tip-top shape!”

“It seems you have been having many conversations with Matron about me.”

“It's not right that she's ignoring you just because you're not a 'real nurse' and she doesn't even know what you're capable of. I know you're, well, I think you're a little shy. But that's nothing to feel bad about. You're the only VAD girl on board, I'm the only American, and we're the only two that's never been on a ship, so some of the others might be a little stand-offish. But when the wounded come aboard, everyone will work together and we'll all be a team to help those poor men. It's been that way everywhere I've worked and I'm sure it'll be the same here. But we've got to meet the others part-way, Diana. They just don't know how nice you are, yet. And if any of them really do cause you trouble, then they'll have to deal with me!”

The thought that Abigail didn't think Diana was a 'real nurse' was unnerving. It was vital that no one understood her true purpose of this voyage; had she been that obvious? Were there others who questioned her intentions?

“Why do you say I am not a nurse? The Doctors; the Colonel would not have allowed me onboard if I did not know how to care for those in need. Once the wounded men arrive, you will see how I perform my duty...”

“Oh, Diana, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I _know_ you're very caring and compassionate and probably are a better nurse all by yourself than all of us combined! But you're a VAD, and a lot of the nurses think that's not 'real' nursing. You just had a few months training, and some of the VAD girls don't even want to work, they just want to wear the uniform and look important. But that's not you. I'm sorry, you know I don't feel like that – just some of the nurses....they don't understand.”

“Thank you. But you are right. I am not like the others, and it is not my intention to be inconsiderate. I have much on my mind. But that is no reason to be rude. Maybe you can help me be more.... _sociable?”_

“Well the first thing you need to do is know is all the women are just as shy about you, as you are about them.”

“When we met, you were not shy.”

“No, silly, as soon as I saw you I knew we would be great friends. When you were standing there fitting your new uniform, with everything you owned in a big pile on your bed and looking busy with those badges in your hair but trying to make me think you knew what you were doing and you really didn't....you were just so....helpless and adorable. How could I not fall for that?”

“You understood all this is new to me? My behavior did not convince you?”

“Oh Diana, sometimes you can be such a goose.”

The two sat, side by side, allowing the ocean breeze to carry their thoughts: For Diana, the sounds and smells of the sea awakening memories of home and anticipation of the duty to follow; weighed against the realization that her new friend was growing closer to her with each moment - just as Steve had slowly become one with her heart......

For Abigail, thoughts of wonder – mixed with admiration, curiosity, and thankfulness for the woman that had been brought into her life.

“Diana....”

“Yes, Abigail?”

“....I was wondering....you don't really seem like the kind of girl that volunteers to be a nurse on a hospital ship traveling halfway 'round the world just to take care of soldiers that might not be so...well, too _refined_. Some of these men can be pretty rough, and you just seem a little out of place doing this type of work....I mean, the soldiers we're picking up from Hospital won't be covered in mud or lice or half-dead from.....all sorts of wounds, like the boys who come into the CCS or even the field hospitals. But caring for them is still hot, dirty, exhausting work . Maybe even harder now that their bodies are healing but their minds can't forget. Men who want nothing more – sometimes even more than getting better - than to try and understand. A private with a horrible chest wound once told me he'd rather be in the trenches fighting than laying in bed thinking. I'm so happy you're here – don't think I'm not! - but you seem like the kind of girl who'd be spending her days in a private clinic, attending fancy parties at night and meeting your fiance...or someone...for lunches...”

“So you are asking...?”

“Diana we've only known each other a few days but you've become _so_ important to me, I've already hurt your feelings I don't want to make you angry.”

“You are important to me also, Abigail. You are the only woman I've met who is accepts me as I am, is not disheartened by my....differences, and remains by my side. You have not hurt me.”

“Thank you, Diana, you don't know what that means to me....but here I am telling you to take time and get to know the other nurses, and we don't know that much about each other. I mean, your family and where you're from and why you became a nurse and even your favorite color!”

In Diana's plan to travel to Themyscira; reunite with her mother; consult with Menalippe, her Aunt, high priestess and guardian of the most sacred, concerning the portals and locations into Hades; obtain the gifts and weapons necessary for that journey; and enter and rescue Steve from the Underworld; she had not considered that at some point along the way she might meet someone with whom she felt a connection similar, yet different, than that which she felt for Steve. If there is only one person, one man, who brought into her life a joy, an understanding and completeness she had never before known; how can she now be experiencing similar feelings for another? And what were the results of Diana's 'feelings' for Steve? His sacrifice, where Diana could do nothing, she could not save him. His loss resulting only in the pain felt by Etta and Charlie and Sami and Chief. And the emptiness she felt....and continues to feel....even though she sits in comfort and acceptance beside this young woman. What if she, by fulfilling her duty to enter Hades and rescue Steve, endangers Abigail? What if just by her presence; by becoming a part of this woman’s life; she has now set into motion another tragedy that could effect Abigail's family, and friends, and those Diana may never even know? “No, not again”, she thought. “I cannot ask another to sacrifice for me. I am stronger than that. I must do this alone.”

But at the same time, she recognized she couldn't just walk away from a relationship she never expected but which had somehow become so necessary. To do so would not only cause pain, but also raise questions. “Why must these... _affections_ arise to distract me from my duties?” She could not abandon Abigail, nor could she ignore her feelings; but she could determine where those feelings might lead. She was a warrior, trained in discipline and balance and self-control. She had been taught to examine every possibility; that every move be made only when the outcome of that move is already known. To never surrender. In battle, this training had always led to triumph. In matters of the heart, would not the same methods prevail?

“You can't anger me, Abigail. I'm happy to share; and to learn more about you, also. Please, tell me about your work as a nurse. Is it as you hoped it would be?”

“Oh, you don't want to hear about that. It's the same as any of the hospitals you've worked at. Just helping the sick and wounded and doing what the doctors say, even though sometimes I don't think the doctors know the patients half as well as we do. Just washing and bandages and cleaning and medications and talking; I mean _listening_ \- to the boys so they know someone cares. You know, Diana. The same thing as you, and every nurse.”

Diana did not, in fact, know the nursing duties required to care for soldiers, and hoped; needed; to understand what would be expected of her in a few days. All she had learned from books and watching Epione treat her childhood injuries would not, she admitted to herself, be of much help among men suffering from the horrors of battle. And she was truly interested and curious about Abigail; both for who she was; and for the importance she had become in Diana's life.

“No, tell me of _you_. And your duty as a nurse is part of who you are. How can I learn to know you, if I don't understand your purpose.”

Abigail caught herself in a spontaneous giggle.

“My _purpose_? See, Diana, it's things you say like that – 'purpose' and 'duty' and 'training' that make others uncomfortable. I don't know where you picked all that up. You're quite a funny duck.”

Diana made note that in the language of Abigail, she could be both a 'goose'; and a 'duck'.

“Well, my _purpose_...probably started when I was just a little girl. Do you _really_ want to hear this?”

“Yes, of course.” Diana sat back, resting her head on the chairs cushion, allowing the sun to warm her face.

 

* * *

 

“Okey-dokey. You know, don't you – I thought I've mentioned it – I'm from Vermont. Just a little township – most of the towns in Vermont are little! - but it was a nice place and not too far from Burlington – that's the biggest city in Vermont - so we weren't fully cut off from the world, but didn't have to be around all that noise and commotion of the city. Oh, nothing like New York or London or Montreal, of course, but until I went off to University, Burlington was the biggest city I'd ever been to. Our farm has been passed down from generation to generation for God-knows-how long...oh, sorry, Diana, I didn’t mean to be vulgar...been passed down for longer than I know, my fathers-father-father I think. Our family was supposed to go all the way back to the 1760's. Everyone expects you to know all about your ancestors and when they first set foot in the valley or came over the mountains and where they built their first cabin and how many Indians they shot, or how many they made friends with, and all that but I've never understood why people think about you on based on what others did a hundred years ago and not about who you are now. So, our land's covered in trees – mostly maple, with a few beech and birch and pine - but only along the edges and where the land's too rough for maple stands. It's really pretty, especially in Autumn when the leaves are every color from green to red to gold and everything in between.”

“It must be beautiful, with all those colors. My favorite color is bronze”, Diana added.

“Ah-ha! That's _one_ new thing I know about you now. It's fun to share things, don't you think?”

“I enjoy hearing you tell the stories. Your family now farms trees?”

“We grow trees, but don't actually farm them, any more....in my grandfathers time there was a big demand for wood, to make buildings and ships and bridges and railroads, so he started logging, cutting down the biggest trees on his land that had been growing for hundreds of years and I think he made a lot of money - but even before the Civil War most of those trees were gone. He tried raising sheep, and cut down even more trees for pasture, but a lot of people had sheep then and he lost most of his fortune. Thankfully he never sold the land, or completely cleared it like some of the dairy farmers. When my father attended University he learned all about tapping sap from Maple trees, to make syrup – you know about maple syrup, don't you?”

“No...it is some type of drink?”

The left corner of Abigails mouth; and her corresponding eyebrow - curved into a mischievous yet slightly nauseous smirk.

“I wouldn’t _try_ drinking it...at least not again. It's for pancakes – maybe you know them as hotcakes or flapjacks? Just pour the syrup on top – even better when it's warm! - and it's the very best thing for breakfast.”

Before traveling to London Diana had no idea what a 'pancake' was; and after eating the thin cakes covered in jam that Etta prepared; and noticing street-side cafes offer 'crepes' that looked similar but flattened to an even greater degree; she had yet to understand which was the proper name. Or the correct way they should be cooked. The concept of 'hotcakes' and 'flapjacks' only added to the puzzle.

“So this 'syrup' is something like honey?”

“Yes! But it takes a lot of work to make the sap into syrup. When it's collected from the sugarbush the sap's almost clear, but when it's cooked it turns golden. All different shades of gold, really, and each color is important because it helps show the different grades of syrup. When my father graduated from University he convinced grandfather to let him try gathering sap from a few acres. After a lot of hard work and experimenting Father was able to produce enough to bottle, selling from a shed at the side of the road with hand-painted signs, hoping sightseers would stop. When I was really little we would sell syrup and candy and the apples dipped in caramel and maple sugar my mother made. People liked it, Father planted stands of trees to meet the demand, and stores started asking if we could make enough for them to stock their shelves. Now our maple syrup and maple candy and maple butter and maple apples and a lot of other maple-ly things are in stores almost everywhere in New England, they say there are even stores in New York selling our products but I’ve never seen it. When some of the neighbors had money troubles my father would buy or rent their land, so every year there're more trees and more syrup. We still have a few sheep but they're really pets. In sugar season people come to the farm from miles around, to enjoy the Autumn leaves and see the sap boiling in the sugarhouse and get samples of syrup and candy and pet the sheep. I guess our place is something of a tradition. But it's such a small place I couldn't wait to get out and see the world....”

From passionate enthusiasm to quiet reflection, Abigail's demeanor turned in a moment.

“I didn't think the world I'd see would be filled with war.” She sat back in her chair, her eyes focused on sights that could not be forgotten; suddenly seized within memories skillfully tucked away yet always present as half-formed shadow.

Diana had never known someone who could speak so joyfully; and so continually; yet in a breath become quiet and withdrawn. The carefree cheerfulness and absent-minded buoyancy Diana had, until now, identified as the key characteristics of her new friend, she now began to consider could be hiding a deeper, more perceptive and possibly wounded personality Abigail carefully concealed from the world. A causality of War, just as the countless soldiers who more visibly bore their wounds. In portraying the distracted innocent, possibly Abigail was protecting herself in the only way she knew how. Is this any different, Diana regarded; or any more fair; than my pretense of being a nurse while I withhold the true purpose of this journey? If someone comes to accept and trust me; even though I did not ask for their confidence; how can I protect them from where this journey must lead? Is it not better to hide behind a mask, if that mask can also serve as a shield? Balancing her mission along with the unexpected feelings of another was a position Diana had been in before; and had failed. She determined while she would be a friend to Abigail, if that is what she wanted; she could not allow Abigail to become too close to her. While Diana would not lie, she would, as a warrior, do all in her power to prevent a future pain from falling upon another whom she has selfishly allowed into her heart. That loss would be too much to bear.

“Your 'Vermont' sounds like a beautiful place. The War is over; and men will once again be good. When all the wounded men have been cared for, perhaps you will return to your home?”

“I don't think so, Diana. I don't really fit in there, any more. It's a lovely dream that all men can be good, but I don't know if that's possible. You know, it's hard.....that's a small town, and they're not so open-minded or cosmopolitan as London or Paris or maybe as we'd like them to be.....' _how you gonna keep them down on the farm_ ' and all that foolishness.... It's not that I don't love my family....and they love me...I'm certain I'll visit whenever I can...but to actually live there again, with all the expectations and assumptions and half-truths, but with little understanding. You know what I mean...don't you?”

“When I left my home, my mother told me I have been her greatest love; and her greatest sorrow.”

“Oh, that's sad. You must have been very hurt.”

“It was difficult. But I knew she only wanted to help me prepare for the duty I had accepted. It was a painful time for all my family.”

“I'm sorry. Do you come from a big family?”

“I have many sisters.”

“That must be nice. I only had one sister. She died when I was a little girl. She was six years older than me and all I remember is she had the most beautiful red hair and whenever she laughed I would start laughing too, even though I was too young to understand what was so funny. I'm older now than she ever was. Isn't that odd? One reason I became a nurse, is I thought that maybe if there had been a better doctor or nurse in our little town, and not just someone who came by every other week, she would have lived. Guess I feel a little guilty, even though I was too young to do anything. That's pretty silly, isn't it?”

“You were a child. There is never comfort in death; but from your loss you drew the strength to become a healer. That is not 'silly', at all.”

“Thank you, Diana. I wonder, sometimes, what our lives would have been if she had lived. If I hadn't been alone. But I'll never know.”

Diana felt the loss of family all too clearly. The emotions lay nearer the surface than she thought possible.

“My aunt died only a few weeks ago; she was a great warrior.”

“I'm so sorry. It's important to have strong women in our lives we can look up to. You loved her very much; I can tell. She must have loved you, too.”

“She sacrificed herself for me. I would not have asked her to...”

“If someone loves you, they will give up everything they have. That's what your Aunt did. She gave everything of herself, probably worked herself to death so you could have a better life. That's what love does, Diana.”

As the ship continued southward and afternoon turned to evening, a warming breeze drew the two women away from their solitary thoughts within separate worlds, and bound them closer together than their neighboring chairs allowed.

 

* * *

 

An announcement had been made of a gathering planned for December 23rd, the night before the HMHS _De_ _vanha_ was scheduled to land at Alexandria.

Diana was aware of the English holiday of 'Christmas'; for weeks prior Etta had prepared for the occasion and spoken to Diana about the season of joy, a time for banquets and balls and feasts and fairs. Apparently the designated day was in celebration of the birthday of the English god, although as Diana observed the men and women of London running about, devoted to actions that appeared more hurried than energetic, the holiday seemed to favor how many gifts one gave, and received, over the sanctity of a divinity. For some reason, to properly observe the ceremony the killing of a tree and decoration of its lifeless body was also important. While the Amazons have, for time immeasurable, held festivals of gratitude both at the height of summer and in the depth of winter, these were conducted in honor of the gods who provide all, and in recognition of your family, friends and home. So while Diana was not unfamiliar with the _concept_ of a reverential celebration; the _practice_ of this 'Christmas' she was finding difficult to follow. As the date neared, excitement and anticipation of the upcoming event raced from the company of nurses through the Medical Officers, dressers, ward aids and to the ships crew. The women on board dedicated much of their time toward making Christmas decorations of paper, small pieces of felt, bits of fabric and string and placing these among the hallways, dining room and interior sitting areas. Despite her attempts to remain removed from the whirl of activity – so different from the unassuming calm of the voyage thus far – even Matron Fainín participated largely by her authoritative presence; but also on two occasions by steadying a ladder while one of the porters draped paper ribbons and Chinese lanterns from the dining room ceiling. Rev. Smithchild, who early into the proceedings had assumed particular responsibility of reminding everyone to “not forget the true meaning of the celebration”, was notably absent as the date drew nearer, stating he must “put the finishing touches on a surprise that would enthrall all onboard”. For the evening celebration itself, Matron had arranged with Colonel Hawkins to have the ships main dining room – previously converted into a hospital ward – temporarily re-arranged so the beds, basins and kettles were crowded along two walls, leaving a generous open area progressing from the small elevated stage into the center of the hall. No trees, obviously, were available on the ship; however Miss Cadfry, assisted by Miss Kelling, had made a reasonable reproduction from green scarves draped on a coat rack, decorated with fanciful ornaments and candy canes someone had managed to fit into the one traveling case, single hat box, and lone valise allowed to each nurse.

“Such a pity we have no greenery!” announced Miss Cadfry, to any or none within hearing. “Last Christmas when I was working at No. 1 Red Cross - such a _lovely_ facility – we had flowers and ferns and the most marvelous tree decorated with glass ornaments. All the Medical Officers donated bits from home, so everyone would feel at ease, and even Colonel Mills-Woodrich - the Chief Medical Officer - dressed as Father Christmas and presented gifts to all the staff and nurses and handed the patients their Red Cross parcels. Of course, No. 1 _is_ sponsored by the Duchess of Westminster, and we had far more resources available....”

“I'd think during war, there wouldn't be enough _resources_ for anyone to be so fortunate”, roused a soft but determined voice from behind the piano. Abigail stood, clenching crinkled sheets of paper she had been trying to fold into stars. “Last Christmas when _**I**_ was stationed at No. 18 General, every man was suffering from typhus and influenza and...other diseases men have, along with their wounds. Nothing we did would take away their misery. Or in 1916 when flesh was falling off their bodies due to gas, or even 'all the way' back in 1915 at the CCS when on Christmas day I was leaning over a Tommy cooker made from an old petrol can, boiling water in empty Frey Bento tins so they'd be enough to clean wounds with maybe, a little, left to wash ourselves. When all the _resources_ we had were one pair of forceps that were shared between two wards and leg and arm cradles rigged from rope and desperation and bandages ripped from our own undergarments because S & S didn't have enough to provide for all the wounded that came in wave after wave. And I think we did quite well, considering.”

She concluded with an incensed sigh, largely unheard over the gasps which radiated from nearly all others in the vicinity, emptying the room of everything but a dulling silence.

Matron cleared her throat, possibly a bit more pronounced than was usual.

“Perhaps what Miss Brieson is statin', will be, as this unfortunate War has been so difficult for everyone – no matter where we were stationed or what we did as our duty - we should all be rememberin' not the differences between us, but how grand was everyone in comin' together to defeat the Kaiser. It's not the challenges that was put in front of us each, but the endin' of the War we should be thinkin' of.”

“I'm just pointing out...”

“Yes, I think we all see your position quite clearly, Miss Brieson. There's no need to be tellin' us what we already know. Each of us has our own experiences that are best left to remember in our own ways, and not while we're be working on such a festive occasion.”

Abigail's usual rosy complexion had risen to a scarlet glow.

“If we can't talk about it between ourselves, all of us who've experienced and have nightmares and still see every man who died because we couldn't help him, then when....”

“Abigail!” The brightness of the tone that rang out from across the room deceived both the earnestness of the discussion and the un-practiced awkwardness of the voice from which it came. “Would you be as a deer and come help me move these chairs?”

But the result of Diana's interjection had the effect she hoped, as Abigail set down her paper-crafts and crossed the room toward her friend.

“Of course, I'll be _happy_ to help” she said, rather loudly so that none could not hear; then far softer, with her back turned away from the other women and nearly as a whisper as she reached Diana:

“ 'Be as a dear'? That didn't sound like you. When would you say something so... _commonplace_?”

“I overheard other women saying it to each other. I thought it was another term as your 'duck' or 'goose'. But I did not change the tone of my voice; I should have sounded as I always sound. Your conversation didn't seem to be progressing as you desired, and I noticed some of the nurses were uncomfortable. Rather than encouraging the ire of Matron Fainín I though it best to draw you away from the conflict.”

The two picked up and set down chairs in no particular pattern, engaged more in their conversation than in any seating arrangement.

“I just get so very upset when everyone thinks that just because there's no more fighting the War is over.”

“The War _is_ over, Abigail. Men will no longer be deceived and are once again free.”

“Don't you see, Diana? The War will never be over for men who have lost everything they knew, all they were, before. It won't be over for any of us who saw the world change in just four years – four years, Diana. That's both nothing, and a lifetime. The only way the War will be 'over' is if we stop pushing it aside and hiding our feelings so deep down that we _almost_ forget they're there. But those are demons that can't be trounced by force, only by understanding.”

“Ladies! Attention, please! Miss Prince – Miss Brieson - everyone gather 'round.”

The nurses set aside their projects and arrayed themselves toward the center of the room in front of Matron Fainín. Diana and Abigail remained somewhat apart, along the edge of the group; both because when called they were furthest away from the midpoint of the room; and it had become usual for the others to maintain a reasonable, yet professional, distance from the two friends when they were together. At times Abigail thought she and Diana must be radiating some type of unseen energy that actively repelled other women.

“Very good work, ladies.” Announced Matron in her typical cordial-yet-not-too-familiar way. The more fatigued she became (although throughout the evening she hadn't appeared to be _doing_ all that much), the more she seemed to revert to her inborn manner of speech. “As you know, tomorrow evenin' dinner is at 7:30, as is usual. Ships chef has promised a Holiday feast he's been workin' hard to make special, so I expect you all to appreciate what he puts in front of us, whatever it may be. Followin' dinner the Captain has informed me the crew's been preparin' some play-actin' and 'tis a custom for 'em to put on a show every Christmas. So if any of you hold objections to artifice and charade you're be'en excused from that portion of the celebration. The Captain has assured me the men will be rememberin' ladies are present and they'll not be doin' anything objectionable. Seein' how tis only fair, we will then gather on stage and sing Christmas carols and uplifting melodies. Miss Taylor has stepped forward to offer her skills on the piano. Song sheets will be provided and if any of you feel you not be havin' the best voice, I suggest tonight you rinse your throat with bicarbonate to rest your vocal cords. As a finale, traditional cake and evenings' refreshment will be made available – again, chef has promised me that only what's wholesome will be served above decks. Col. Hawkins and I will be distributin' a small gift to each of you. Rev. Smithchild has promised a surprise that even I haven't been made aware. I'm certain we all will enjoy whatever he has prepared, even if it's a dramatic readin' of the Story of Our Christ that we've all heard before. That's be'en a full evenin'. The next day, December 24, we land at Alexandria and take on wounded. That's why we're all here, don' be forgettin' it. In the mornin' all the Christmas decorations will be freshened up, to welcome and comfort the men when they're onboard. And we'll be havin' another Christmas celebration, for 'em, and at the same time be enjoyin' it just as if it was our first. 'Tis for the men, this Christmas of 1918, after four years of hard-won battle and now they're headin' Blighty. 'Tis our duty to ease their pain, both in body and in spirit. Now any of you who still be needin' time to finish up your decoratin', get to it. Lights out at 11:30. Tomorrows a busy day. Move along!”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**9**

The next morning could not be distinguished from any other morning. Promptly at 7:15, Diana took her place at the front of the Quarter deck – 'front', actually, being the small platform set toward the rear of the ship – to lead morning exercise. On the third day out from Southampton, Matron had asked Diana to direct morning drills; largely because, as Diana later found, Abigail had told Matron Fainín: “Miss Prince isn't feeling like she belongs and maybe she'd like some type of activity where she could meet the other ladies and feel like she's contributing. I think she's really athletic and maybe she could lead the morning exercises or something?”

And from that point, Diana had become the 'physical training guide'. Although her main concern was keeping a low profile, she soon discovered keeping to oneself while onboard ship is not only impractical due to the forced proximity of living quarters and lack of privacy; but any attempt at seclusion creates greater interest from others as to just what a person is trying to hide. As Diana could not play the piano or knit from wool or play board games which were both familiar yet foreign; and she had no one, other than Etta, to write to; and any attempt to discuss the War or current events or share personal stories with the other women would lead to situations which were unexplainable; she was content, for less than an hour each day, proving her interest and ability to 'be one of the girls' through leading a series of stretches, bends, lifts, and other simple activities. The nurses, and possibly all women of this world, did not appear prepared to undertake the level of training familiar to Amazons. If not for the friendship of Abigail, Diana would have found herself even more restless than she had become.

As the approved exercise clothing consisted of nothing but simple grey shifts, intended to be worn only with stockings, rubber-soled canvas shoes, and a rather odd-looking white cotton head-dress, Diana was forced to do without her armour – that she had worn faithfully since departing Themyscira – hiding it away in a compartment she had discovered had been conveniently provided under the bed. The sight of her seven female companions wearing so little – compared to the layers they felt compelled to clothe themselves at all other times – was something of a shock as Diana had become concerned if these women were trying to hide their bodies for reasons unknown. But when draped in only one layer of cotton and the various underthings women of this world believed necessary, she could see no basic difference between their bodies and hers; nor those of any other Amazon. On the first few days of exercise sessions her suspicions were reinforced when she noticed members of the ships crew suddenly take on various duties in the vicinity of the Quarter Deck; always at an adequate distance not to be obvious, yet near enough that they could closely observe the women. At first Diana thought the men, also, may be looking for something unusual or they may want to engage in morning activities themselves; but when she mentioned this to Abigail, her friend just laughed and said something about “not the kind of activities you're talking about!”. Within a few days the observers had largely abandoned their attentions, discouraged by orders from the ships officers; harsh warnings by Matron; and the disregard of familiarity. By the end of the week only two or three crewmen, skulking behind ladders and equipment, remained who seemed particularly preoccupied by the women's activities.

“Have these men never before seen women?”, Diana considered.

While none of the nurses possessed the strength or capabilities of any Amazon, even those with the most vigor and energy: Miss Chesterson; 'Mae', Diana believed was her first name; and of course Abigail, who could be counted on to encourage and support the other nurses whenever they fell behind; could not be compared to even the least active of Themyscira. But this was to be expected and it was not Diana's duty to train them to become warriors.

The curiosities began with the morning prayer session. Always presided over by Rev. Smithchild, who seemed to relish the start of each day when, as he once said “Was another opportunity to share the good word”, this mornings assembly was unusually hurried and included many references to illumination. Once Diana had noticed the change in tenor, she counted one mention each of: “Seeing the Light”; “The Shining Glory”; “Brightness unsurpassed”; and “Brilliancy of Heavens Aglow”. Perhaps the Mediterranean sun was affecting the Reverend. In his haste to take a bite of toast and sip of tea before rushing away from breakfast ('Due to expedient matters'), the Reverend failed to notice this days version of the carefree expressions Abigail had taken to making every morning during prayer. Varying from the appearance of someone biting into something unexpected, to the reaction from stepping on something disagreeable; Abigail always waited until Diana had glanced her way before scrunching her nose, squinting her eyes, and occasionally sticking out her tongue. For reasons Diana could not understand, Abigail seemed to take great fun in drawing attention to herself and, by association, to Diana. Which is exactly what Diana was working to avoid.

Following breakfast Diana and Abigail had little to do for the remainder of the day. While the other women put the finishing touches on their Christmas decorations and arrangements for the evenings event, there was little holiday preparation remaining for the two friends. Both believed they had poor singing ability so there was no need to rehearse; Diana's participation in decorating had largely been assisting others; and Abigail's attempt at paper-folding, while admirable, resulted in stars that looked like misshapen trees and trees more resembling the outline of a mountain range. In her time on the ship – nearing two weeks - Diana had not been able to identify exactly what would be expected of her in the duties as a nurse and the care-taking abilities her shipmates assumed she possessed. With wounded men arriving the next day, this would be her final opportunity.

”While the others are busy, would it be helpful for us to look into the wards, and be certain all is prepared for the men? Perhaps in everyone's excitement there may be work that was left undone?” Aside from a genuine concern over providing the soldiers with the best care possible, Diana's main goal in reviewing the fixtures and equipment would be to observe Abigail, make note of anything she shows particular attention, and draw her out concerning just _how_ a certain apparatus operates, or exactly _when_ a procedure would be applied. By asking Abigail how _she_ would work; how this ship compared to hospitals she had been assigned to previously; and by following her lead Diana was certain she could vanquish any challenge. Without, hopefully, anyone being the wiser.

“May as well. The wards will be about all we'll see for the next two weeks, so it's better we familiarize ourselves with them now rather than try to figure out where everything is when men need their bandages changed or it's time for medicine or someone's asking for a cup of tea. I don't think we'll find any surprises, most all the wards I've ever been in are more-or-less the same, anyway. Matron says this ship has everything we need, and more. I'm used to needing more, and having nothing. But it won't hurt to give it a look-over. Besides, I think we've walked around this deck so many times we've started to wear a path in the boards.”

The first two wards Diana and Abigail inspected held nothing unremarkable, leaving little occasion for noting much more than the efficiency with which every space on each lower deck had been arranged for care of the wounded, not a spot empty of beds and cots; harnesses, slings and equipment; save for the lockers of sheets, towels, bandages and cleaning supplies which had been fitted into any odd corner. By the time they'd traveled down three decks – “With all these stairs, we won't even need your morning exercises!” Abigail mentioned more than once – Diana had discovered she would not be alone in caring for the men, as she had assumed, but as a VAD she would always have to consult with a Sister or Red Cross nurse before taking any actions (and she therefore decided to seek out Abigail whenever these situations arose); she had observed Abigail reviewing the wheeled carts that contained various medical instruments, basins, bandages and paddings and carefully 'confirmed' with Abigail the use of each; and she had learned that as the men are brought onboard, each is separated by severity of wound, immediacy of care, and any special considerations of every patient. That each ward is designated a specific level of care, and every man is assigned to a ward based upon his original classification.

“Then the men who are in the most pain are housed together? And are not mixed with those that have the slightest injuries?”, Diana asked.

“That's the way it _should_ work”, replied Abigail. “Of course in the field we usually didn't have that liberty. Usually we just treated everyone as they arrived. Sometimes we didn't even know how badly a man needed help until we'd cared for twenty, thirty, fifty men before him, only to reach the end of the line and find a boy who's almost bled out. These are the ones who never call out, never let you know how badly they're hurt so you think their wounds can wait. I've seen men die in silence, missing a leg or half of their chest, while we were treating someone with a bullet in his arm. But I don't think we'll see that here. Everyone we're picking up wouldn’t have been released for home if they weren't strong enough to make the trip. Maybe we're lucky and the worse thing we'll have to treat is the sniffles!”

“Hello, ladies. Reporting to duty early?”

Through only the briefest of formalities, not more than polite conversation during and immediately following each evenings dinner, the voyage had provided few opportunities for interaction between the nurses and Medical Staff. Of the two Doctors now standing in front of Diana and Abigail – who had unexpectedly appeared when the women, preoccupied in conversation had rounded a corner - Subaltern Gladdle appeared to be as much, if not more, alarmed than the women. His previous attempts at cordial and social exchange had left among the nurses a general impression that the Lieutenant was more fearful of the opposite sex than he was assured of his title and position. Oddly, thought Diana, these attributes resulted in many of the women showing greater interest in the young man than would be expected; interest generally directed toward those exhibiting qualities 'more fitting to the masculine temperament'. And as example of this temperament of manliness, beside Subaltern Gladdle stood Captain Fuller: Broad shouldered, square jawed, and generous in his impression of himself.

“Always overjoyed to find women eager to secure their place. Before this recent unpleasantness, I'd suspect the both of you would relish a full days housework yet that evening have men kneeling at your feet in hope of winning the next dance. Am I not correct?”

Abigail's eyes grew wide, highlighting the furrows that had developed along her forehead. “Captain....Subaltern....we were just making certain everything is in order for tomorrow. I'm sorry if we interrupted your discussion.”

“No interruption at all Miss..... _Brieson_ , is it? And Miss Prince? Don't allow those thoughts to enter your head. I would never consider such a pleasant surprise an interruption. Have you ladies lost your way? Navigating the complexities of a ships passageways can be challenging for the more delicate mind. Wouldn't you agree, Mr Gladdle?”

“The nurses seem to know where they're going, Captain. Besides they found their way down here....”

“Nonsense! Obviously they began exploring, became disoriented, and were fortunate to encounter us along the way. Unless, of course, the ladies were seeking us out....two lonely young women, suitable male companions, a long sea voyage...things may happen, do they not?”

Diana couldn't see if something had caught Subaltern Gladdle's attention and he had lowered his head to investigate; or if he was physically shrinking; but he actually appeared to be growing slightly smaller while his coloring developed a rosy flush. Which was an interesting contrast to Abigail whose presence became more assured as her face rose to scarlet. Not unlike, thought Diana, the unspoken language of an Amazon preparing for battle.

“Captain Fuller, we were just on our way out”, Diana declared. “We'll leave you men to your work. It must not be anything of interest to _women_.”

“No need to rush away. We've just met; only beginning to know each other! Surely, Miss Prince, you and Mr Gladdle can discuss similarities between your volunteer service and his lack of experience. Medical experience. And for Miss Brieson and I, I'm certain we can find a dark, secluded corner to explore various clinical and anatomical attributes....”

Abigail took one step toward the Captain on her right foot, slightly shifting her left to an outside angle and raised both arms in front of her abdomen, hands clasped. “ _Nurse_ Brieson, and _Nurse_ Prince, Captain. And neither of us have any interest in meeting, discussing, or _exploring_ any attribute, anatomical or otherwise, that is not directly associated with the care of a wounded patient. Now please move aside or I will not be accountable for my actions.”

  
In response, the Captain also stepped forward, his arms reaching out as if initiating an embrace; and with a large, almost unnatural, smile forming beneath his impeccably-trimmed mustache.

“And what _actions_ would that be, Miss Brieson? I would not want to make you cry.”

“Come, Abigail. We can go this way...”. Diana prepared to step between the two if necessary.

Before Diana could intercede, Abigail sidestepped with her left foot, leaving her right firmly planted in place; reached with her right hand around the Captains neck, pulling the man toward her and thrusting her left elbow under his right armpit, which became the pivot around which Captain Fuller flipped head-over-heels to Abigail's left, landing on his back with a 'whoomph'. Before he struck the deck Abigail had swung around, instantly standing, again with arms raised and one hand clasped over the other, above the shocked and supine man before he knew what had happened.

“That is _one_ of my actions, Captain. And if you continue to approach Diana or me with condescending, suggestive, and unprofessional comments I'll break your arm.”

“You'll _**what**_?” This was a development Diana hadn't expected.

“I'll break his arm, Diana. Or any other part of his body that he thrusts in my way. Do you understand what I'm saying, Captain?”

The Captain, partially supported by Lieutenant Gladdle who had rushed to his aid, looked up at the women. “I was only trying to make our acquaintance, Miss. No need for physical fist-and-cuffs. If I had known you were one of those suffragettes....”

“If you had known, your attitude would have been different? If you had labeled me a suffragist; or a 'liberal'; or as a woman seeking the rights that should be granted to everyone; you would have left us alone?”

With the help of Mr Gladdle, Captain Fuller had regained his feet; although was careful to keep at greater than arms-length distance from Abigail. “When one sees attractive women, one does not believe them to be Suffragettes....usually those women are the ones who....”

“You're not helping your position, Captain. Perhaps this is a good time for you and Subaltern Gladdle to return to what you were doing before we arrived, and we will continue with our work. Shall we, Diana?” Astounded at what she had just witnessed, Diana followed as her friend turned and walked toward the doorway.

“You know, of course, I could have you both expelled from the Nursing service!” Proclaimed the Captain.

“Abigail hesitated, but did not turn her head. “And I could mention your improper behavior toward two Red Cross nurses to Colonel Hawkins, Matron Fainín, and the Royal Army Medical Corps. With witnesses. Good day, gentlemen.”

 

* * *

 

“Abigail, _what_ was that?” When the two reached the top deck Diana was first to speak. “I would not have thought that you would have....could have....was that even a wise action?”

“Diana, this is not the first time that man has accosted me. A few days ago, after lunch, I was walking to my room to get my coat – remember, that's the day I tried to teach you to fly a kite off the stern and the wind blew it away? - and I encountered him in the hallway. You know how narrow some of these passages are, but even when I asked to pass he made some comment about 'close quarters make close friends' or something like that, and then he....he...I'm so embarrassed.”

“You just threw a man over your shoulder and promised to be more forceful unless he behaved. There is no reason to be embarrassed.”

“He _purposely_ rubbed up against me as we passed. I let out a little shriek – just because I was so surprised, and then he laughed. I told him not to try that again and he just grinned like I didn't mean it. That same ridiculous grin he just used again, he probably thinks it's charming but I find it revolting. It was _horrible_ , Diana. I think he enjoyed my cry even more than touching me. He may have caught me unaware that day, but I told myself if he ever tried anything like that again I'd have to take action.”

“You _did_ take action.”

“University required all women to complete at least one course in ju-jitsu or boxing. I thought boxing was too rough and nasty – all that sweating and punching – plus our gymnasium teacher had studied with a real Japanese expert, so I finished both the first and a second year of training, and then I became a helper to new girls the next year. Teacher said I was ' well-skilled'. But it's only for defense. In today's world, Diana, women need to know how to take care of ourselves. His behavior was scandalous and disgusting, but I was also afraid for you. Who knows what he would have tried?”

“Yes, um, thank you, Abigail. Would you actually break his arm?”

“Oh, I probably wouldn't really break it, then he wouldn't be able to help the wounded boys and we'd end up nursing him. And I bet he's be a whiner, too, always complaining and wanting attention. But I'd make him think twice about how he treats women. Look, it's almost five o-clock! Time for tea, and then we must dress for the party. Time flies by so quickly!”

 

* * *

 

Everyone prepared their finest dress for the evenings celebration. From the Medical staff and ships officers who had directed their aides to polish their leather and affix their medals and decorations; to the ships crew, careful to wear only clothes that had been recently washed; to Rev. Smithchild, clothed....in his usual manner. On this one occasion, Matron had eased the clothing restrictions so that each nurse would be allowed to wear any appropriate evening dress they had available; if the dress was in proper taste, respectful to the position of a nurse, and in no way revealing. Otherwise the standard blue suit would be worn. While radical – for Matron – this loosening of rules proved rather unnecessary. In the hours leading up to the evening Diana had overheard - as the cabins occupied by the nurses were close together and the walls little more than partitions - only two of the women urging one another into corsets, unwrapping carefully-packed away finery, and complimenting each other on their appearance. Diana, dressed in skirt, blouse and stockinged feet, had just completed brushing her jacket when a familiar knock rang from the doorway.

“Diana? Are you in?”

“Yes, Abigail, come in.”

As the door opened Diana was not welcomed by the usual sight of her friend, but rather by a mass of gold-trimmed red fabric Abigail had draped over her arm and was trying to carry high above her head so the dress would not touch the floor.

“Merry Christmas, Diana! This is a special night and I didn't think you had anything other than a uniform....and we don't want to wear those uncomfortable things tonight. Plus I wanted to find the most special gift for you I could, and seeing there's not many options onboard....I made this.”

She handed the bundle to Diana, revealing she was clothed in a luminous aqua green silk and linen gown, trimmed in silver embroidery and secured at the waist with a slightly less vibrant green bow whose color matched the delicate lace sleeves. A lace wrap, coral in body but bordered with appliqued holly-green leaves, concealed most of her open neckline.

“A...dress? But when....how...you _made_ this?”

“It's something that's always been too large for me. I don't even know why I packed it, but see, there was a reason! Of course I'm a little smaller than you, so I just let it out a bit here and there, added some panels along the sides, made it longer with some lace at the bottom....I hope it fits. It should – for measurements I borrowed an extra dress in your size from Mr Tilley in the stockroom, and from time to time I'd make note of the size of something you were standing next to and match it with your height and shape. Back home I used to alter clothes for Mother and all my friends without measuring them at all, and the dresses I made almost always fit. Maybe it's not the most finished, I don't have a machine so I did it all by hand and I couldn't have asked you to try it on because that would have ruined the surprise. I do so hope this is right.”

Diana held the dress in front of her. The only other time she had tried on clothing was with Etta, just after she and Steve had arrived in London, and following hours of work and hundreds of attempts only one outfit was acceptable. Abigail had devoted so much effort and care, how could Diana refuse to at least try it on? She admired the carefully-inset violet panels which contrasted with, yet complimented the red. Obviously Abigail had taken this material from yet another of her garments, as well as the gold beading that ran up the sleeves and round the neckline, highlighting the spray of wine-red silk roses arranged along the left shoulder, continuing as vines and stems crossing down and to the right. Not since she was a child and Hippolyta had presented to her the small, priceless tokens of youth, had Diana held such a precious gift.

“Abigail it's... _beautiful_. I don't deserve...and I have nothing for you!”

“You've already given me more than I ever expected, Diana. I don't need anything else. Try it on!! I'll step outside, and you call me when you're ready. If only you had the proper shoes....”

“I think I have something.”

Abigail had been waiting for what felt like only a few moments – hastened by her excitement and anticipation – before Diana called her. Carefully opening the door, she feared seeing Diana wearing her uniform skirt and jacket, dress laying on the bed, unwearable. But the sight that greeted her was more elegant than she had imagined.

“What do you think? Does it fit as you hoped?”

“Diana, it's _wonderful_! I thought I'd figured out your size, but it fits perfectly! And the color is just right for you. But do you like it? Is it something you would wear tonight? Did you find shoes?....your SHOES! Red and gold, they're brilliant! Have you been hiding these all along? Diana, you're beautiful.”

“It's your dress, Abigail. It's perfect. Everything is perfect. How can I thank you....”

“Well, you can accompany me to the party. Red and green are the colors of Christmas, so as long as we're dressed like this, we simply _must_ attend the most _exclusive_ social functions. And aboard the Devanha, that's the pre-Christmas, holiday gala! I hear _everyone_ will be there!”

“Everyone must be there. It is required.”

“Oh, Diana. Let's have some fun!”

And the two friends, arm-in-arm, ascended to the celebration.

 

* * *

 

Throughout the evenings dinner: Toasts in remembrance to those gone and to the health of the Royal Family and all present; pleasant but empty small talk; and series of satires and performances enacted by the ships crew (in which any reference to the Kaisers resemblance to a farm animal produced the biggest laughs); nothing succeeded in drawing attention away from Diana and Abigail. While everyone knew not to stare – or in the case of some sailors, were specifically ordered to 'mind their eyes' – not a moment passed without a glance, glimpse, or gander at the women. Some looked on in admiration; others in jealously; distaste; objection; and at least one case of fear. As always, Abigail presented the persona she wanted others to believe: Carefree, lighthearted, a bit of the 'adorable innocent'; and she appeared to take no notice or care in the shrouded interest of others. Diana, uncomfortable in a world she hadn't even known to exist until a few weeks ago and without a specific duty to accomplish other than to 'have fun', remained as close to possible near her friend, only fueling unspoken comments among those apt to think such things, about _those two_.

“Very good, lads”, affirmed ships Captain Bowerman as he stepped to center stage on the heels of four crewman unmistakeably costumed as well-known figures. “Quite the accurate portrayal of King George and President Wilson kicking the Kaiser where it's most effective! And now our female passengers have graciously offered to entertain us with a Yuletide chorale. Matron Fainín....”

“Thank you, Captain. Before we begin, I'd like to express our gratitude for all the fine work your men have been doin', and the generosity we've all been receivin' onboard. Ladies?!”

Matron swept her hand from the crowd and toward the stage, continuing with a flourish that ended in vigorous applause. Looking between one another, the nurses weren't certain if they had been summoned to gather on stage for their performance; or directed into a round of 'hurrahs' for the crew; so they did both, clapping as they moved toward the stage and assembling to the left, and slightly behind, the piano which had already been claimed by Miss Taylor. Diana made a point of standing as far behind the piano as possible, the wall at one side and Abigail at the other. Turning to face the ladies, Matron directed _soto voice:_

“Now we'll just be singin' a few strains that everyone knows. There's bein' no need to makin' it fancy.” At that statement Diana noticed Matrons gaze briefly but pointedly directed toward her and Abigail.

“ 'I Saw Three Ships', everyone, on 'four': One, Two, Three, Four - _'I saw three ships on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day....' ”_

Diana did not know this song, nor, she suspected, any other song that would be suggested that night. In London she had come across roving bands of singers who drifted among the footpaths and turned up at various doorways, and they were all singing songs of this holiday; but she usually neither understood the meaning nor the words. So as around her the nurses pressed on from one carol to another, in alliance with Miss Taylors quite talented piano accompaniment which sometimes pursued, and occasionally preceded, the direction of Matron, Diana silently voiced the sounds as best she could, filling in with an intermittent ' _fa-la-la-la-la_ ' or ' _noel noel noel noel_ ' whenever Abigail helpfully signaled her by a gentle bump of her elbow into Diana's side.

Following a generous selection of songs; more than Captain Bowerman; the nurses; and even the audience had expected, Matron turned toward the assembled men, resulting in a round of applause that could signify either appreciation of the music, or in gratitude of its conclusion.

“Thank you, thank you all.” Matron enthusiastically rang out. “'Tis only a bit a' good humor, but we're bein' so pleased 'tis makes you happy.” Her gaiety displayed a hidden zeal no one had expected. “And as a finale, please everyone be joinin' us in ' _Keep the Home Fires Burning_ ', ending with ' _Auld Lang Syne_ '.”

Within the first few lines of the song, the tone of the room changed from buoyant to wistful. Men joined into the lyrics not as celebratory victors looking toward the future with expectation and assurance, but as individuals removed and alone. The women voiced each word with respect, remembering the men – boys, really - they had lost despite all efforts. No longer was every man and woman in the room fully a solder; sailor; nurse; or doctor – all were among the wounded. And all, on some level and to some extent, realized the world they had known was just as much a casualty of the War as every individual who would never return home; and weighing on each survivor lay the question: 'Why?', hidden within a future that may not hold an answer.

Diana had lost as much, possibly more, than anyone in the room. And before her was the possibility of even greater loss. If she failed at her mission, was unable to return home and reunite with her family; enter into Hades and rescue Steve, what would remain? For the first time in her life she was uncertain. She was frightened. She was alone. Only inches apart, she sensed the warmth of Abigial's body, her scent and the closeness of their hands. Of the intimacies that had formed between them, feelings similar to what she felt for Steve, yet unfamiliar; of the connection that bound the two women together. Abigail slightly shifted her position and the fingers of the two women brushed together. Diana took her friends hand into hers and turned to consider her reaction. Abigail smiled.

 

* * *

 

“Matron Fainín, ladies, thank you, that was truly an memorable program. And now”, Captain Bowerman announced, “I believe we have sweets and punch available at the rear of the room?”

The audience rose from their chairs to find the ships stewards had placed at the far wall a large round table overflowing with plates of cakes, fruit, nuts, and other Christmas treats, highlighted in the center by a punchbowl ringed with small cups. “Our ships crystal.” stated the Captain. “Only brought out for the most special occasions.”

Wordlessly at first, lost in memories of days past, passengers and crew filed toward the refreshments as the introduction of food and drink slowly served to lighten everyone’s burdens and once again conversation and laughter became alive. Waiting until the other women had cleared the platform, Diana and Abigail remained, their hands together but hidden behind the piano.

“That was splendid, Diana....you did very well...with your singing. I don't think anyone noticed....”

“The songs were very moving....perhaps I feel more than I realized.”

“I know. Thank you, Diana.”

“Greetings! Greetings all!” From the small side study stepped a character of similar shape and size as Rev. Smithchild (who had conveniently disappeared from the room when refreshments were announced), dressed in a hooded robe of forest green, trimmed in white fur around the collar and cuffs. Diana was uncomfortably reminded of the similar garment she had lost in Belgium.

“Why look!” announced a unidentifiable voice from the crowd. “It's Father Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to all! I can't remain long – have many other visits to make – but I've presents for everyone! Gather 'round – ladies first!”

At Christmas, no matter what the date; location; or age; all but the most resolute can become as children. Nurses, crew, officers and Medical Staff alike formed to pass by Father Christmas in anticipation of what treasures he would reveal, and once again men were thinking of the toy trains they desired as boys; and girls of the dolls they wished for each night before drifting into sleep.

“Come, Diana, there's _presents_!”

“But I have already received a present?”

“No, these are from _Father Christmas_ – he's something for everyone.”

“Abigail, I believe the man who we are to accept as this ' _Father of Christmas'_ is in fact, Reverend Smithchild with additional hair he has applied to mask his face.”

“ _Of course_ he is, Diana. But that doesn't matter.”

“Do not the others see this?”

“They _choose_ not to. That's part of the magic. Come on, let's get in line.”

Of course, trains and dolls are rarely fitting gifts for men and women who have grown to only infrequently dream of toys and wish for playthings. Particularly men and women who have lived through the past four years. But everyone received a small, carefully wrapped box containing a golden locket – suspended from a necklace for the women; a watch fob for the men; opening to reveal to one side a framed space for the photo of a loved one; and opposite, the engraving: 'HMHS _Devanha_ , Xmas 1918. For God, King and Country'. As boxes were opened and gifts revealed, the gasps, smiles, and among some, tears that followed were something with which no childhood trinket or novelty could compete.

Diana knew nothing of Christmas; of the birth of a god that was, she was told, the reason for this celebration; and she could not understand many of the customs so important to these men of England. But among those whom had now, she realized, become a part of her life – despite, she was ashamed to say, against her will – she recognized the meaning of this holiday was not the songs or the food or the presents that seemed to have become so important; but what truly mattered was being with those who you care for, and who care for you. And that this realization will make the next few days all the more difficult.

No one noticed Rev. Smithchild; ' _Father Christmas_ '; slip away after all presents had been distributed; but no one could overlook his return.

“Ladies! Gentlemen!” The Reverend, clean-shaven and in black suit as he normally appeared, roused all in his most pronounced Sunday-sermon voice. “I am happy to present the highlight of the evening – my compliments to the nurses and their superb singing – but I have managed; through no little effort, I may add; to secure, by means of my colleague now shepherd of a parish in California, two of the most recent _MOTION PICTURES_....”

Various whispers radiated among the crowd.

...delivered to theatres: _'The Ghost of Slumber of Mountain'_ , which, title not withstanding, is not a story of horror but rather a tale of adventure! Still, certain elements may be overpowering to those of a more sensitive nature, so I urge anyone uncertain to, if necessary, avert your eyes.”

Having never been stationed at the front; nor in a CCS; Aid Post; or Field Hospital, Rev. Smithchild could not realize anyone who entered the War as 'sensitive' soon abandoned that luxury.

“And the second picture is the feature-story _'He Comes up Smiling'_ , a lively comedy staring Douglas Fairbanks and Marjorie Daw! So, if you will all be so kind as to take a chair – remember, those nearest the front have the best view! - I will uncover the film-projection device....Miss Taylor, have you prepared the piano score I've provided? Captain Bowerman, if you will assist me by revealing the screen behind the stage, and then dimming the lamps...Mr. Tilly, do you have the fire-bottle at hand? There's a good man - the show, as they say, will begin!”

While most of those present had seen at least a small number of motion pictures, during the War lack of opportunity and continually-progressing technology made any viewing experience a novelty and the audience sat back in anticipation. Diana, however, had never seen the projection of any story, and while she was aware of various types of photographic amusements, she knew not what to expect. Sitting side-by-side with Abigail; close enough to touch, but avoiding contact due to the uncomfortable adjacency of others; Diana gazed in awe as the flickering light filled the room, progressing from words upon the screen; to images of people who appeared, but did not remain; continuing with more words framed in decorative script; and climaxing with the appearance of creatures Diana had never been aware of, not even from the most fanciful stories she had been told as a child.

“Abigail!”, she whispered as the giant lizards struggled upon the screen. “How can this be? Where do these animals exist?”

“It's a _story_ , Diana. They are just make-believe.”

“Then how can they live in the photographs? Are these images of a world that is hidden?”

“ _ Ssssh! Quiet!  _ ” rang out a voice from behind.

“I'll tell you later. Just enjoy the movie.”

The next film was not as alarming; as far as Diana could determine it concerned a man who was confused about where his duty lay until he encountered a woman with a powerful father who had to be rescued from evil. This was a story Diana could understand.

As Matron Fainín had stated, it had been a full evening. Following the final frame of _'He Comes up Smiling'_ and as the lamps and lanterns were again illuminated, parties of twos and threes drifted out of the room and into the night, some in silence, others laughingly re-enacting particularly-enjoyed scenes from the films. A few hearty crewmen gathered around what remained of the treats and punch, enjoying one last cupful with a slice of cake or handful of nuts; Rev. Smithchild directed his attention only to the care of his projection-machine; while Captain Bowerman, the Medical Officers and Matron gathered near the side-study to affirm plans for the next day. Diana and Abigail glanced around the room at the decorations and memories of the evening: Abigail in promise and wonder; Diana sober in the knowledge that, once again, what she had learned to cherish she must soon abandon.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

"Wasn't that thrilling! Diana, those 'monsters' are _dinosaurs_. Giant lizards that lived millions of years ago.”

The two women stood, as they had so many nights before, at the ships railing watching the waves pass endlessly below while the stars remain fixed.

“That cannot be. We just saw them in the pictures. They must live where few men have gone.”

“Maybe, I guess. Scientists are finding new things every day. But you'd think it would hard to hide a thirty foot _lizard...._

 _'Agamemnon_ ' would be a better name for a dinosaur than for that little bird Douglas Fairbanks had. But I loved it when at the end he saved the girl and her father and exposed the villain. _”_

“Yes, that bird did not remind me of Agamemnon. Abigail, may I ask a personal question?”

“Of course. We should have no secrets.”

“You are a very... _surprising_ woman. You remind me of women I knew at home, yet in many ways you are different. Nursing is a very important duty, but you seem skilled at much more. Is caring for the sick and injured the task you have accepted?”

“You know there's not many options open for us. I could have been a schoolteacher or a tutor; or a dressmaker – mother insisted I learn to sew from when I was very little; or a nurse. Or get married, and _that_ wasn't going to happen! People used to say I had more thoughts than a young woman should have. That I asked too many questions and was too impudent for my own good. But I just wanted to _know_ things. At Hospital Training School in Burlington one of the instructors thought I had enough ability to study medicine – become a doctor at University...me, a doctor, can you imagine? - and she arranged for me to meet with the mistress of Royal Victoria. Somehow I passed the exams and was accepted. In my third year the War began, and everyone was joining....”

“You believed it was your sacred duty to fight for what is right and just?”

“ _Sacred duty_ isn't exactly what I would say. A lot of it has to do with my mother saying I shouldn't go, that 'there's enough girls willing to travel half-way 'round the world to do the same nursing that can be done here'. But this is the last war and there'll never be another chance, so I took all the money I had and volunteered with Number Three Canadian General, and here I am!”

She sighed.

“I've nursed German wounded – prisoners – and almost all of them seemed as 'right' and 'just' as any of our boys. Maybe because they were hurt, depended on our care, and if they were fighting they'd be just as bad as the papers say. The Kaiser, the German generals, maybe they're what's evil and part of that evil is sending innocent men out to do their fighting. But that would mean the Generals and leaders on our side are evil too, for sending out our boys. I don't know.”

Diana gazed into the distance; toward where she knew Themyscira could be found; acknowledging the weight that had been bearing on her heart.

“My mother, also, told me I should not go and I may not return.”

“Mothers can be like that”, Abigail acknowledged. They don't remember what it's like to be a young woman and wanting to make a difference.”

Diana, for a moment, carefully regarded this before her reply. “I do not believe my mother was ever a young woman.”

“Sometimes it can feel like that.”

In unspoken understanding, the two moved away from the railing, slowly walking down the deck toward the stairway and their cabins. Both took the others hand in her own. Rounding a corner, they found themselves only a few feet from Matron Fainín, purposefully completing her evening constitutional.

“Here comes Matron. Maybe we should move a little ways apart.”

“Why? Are you ashamed to be with me?”

“God, Diana, no! I thought maybe _you_...”

“Good evenin' ladies. Have you been enjoyin' the festivities?”

“Oh, it was brilliant”, Abigail offered. “The food and the plays and the motion pictures! Diana thought it was magic, but I told her it's just stories and make believe.”

“Yes, 'tis quite the age we find ourselves. Have ya' both become accustom' to the ship, now? The movement no longer causes problems?”

Diana spoke up.

“Yes, we have found our feet. If the waves become rough, we stand side by side at the railing and support one another.”

“It's good to see you are.... _comforting_ each other”, Matron replied as she glanced down at the entwined connection the women shared. “When I told you to be looking' after one another, I didn' intend for ya' to be leadin' each other by the hand.”

“We are together.”

“I see. Tomorrow we take on wounded. Remember I'm expectin' _every one_ of my nurses to attend to their duties _at all_ times _without_ distraction. Good night, ladies.”

Matron proceeded down the stairs; but Abigail held Diana back before she could take a step.

“It's been so magical I don't want it to end. It's our last night. Once the wounded come onboard we won't have any time to ourselves until we’re back in England; tonight is clear and warm and look at the stars! Let's sleep on deck!”

“Is that allowed?”

“I don't know, but there's nothing in Matrons rules saying we _can't_ . I know some of the aides and crew does. Mr. Tilley told me after he's trapped all day in that closet they call a storeroom, he'd rather sleep outside than in his cabin. Diana, and I'm saying this with the deepest affection, you really need to be more confident in yourself. You are smart and strong and beautiful. I wish I possessed _half_ that wonder you take for granted. Now let's change out of these party clothes, get some blankets and pillows and we can talk and tell stories until we fall asleep. I dare you to get to your room and back before I do!”

 

* * *

 

The two awoke to a brilliant, burning sun on a motionless ship, the stillness of which was almost as unsettling as the unfamiliar movement had been at the start of their journey.

“Good morning, Diana!” Abigail, rising just enough to lean her head on the wall behind her, was one of those who are faithfully bright and cheerful upon awakening. Even if that's not fully how they feel.

“Hello, Abigail. Are you...alright?”

“Of course! Is there some reason.....oh. I'm sorry about last night. Were you able to sleep? I don't want to become a bother.”

Diana rose to the same position as her friend. “When you began to scream, I thought someone had intruded; but to turn and see we were alone, yet you were sobbing, crying out names of men I'd never heard; trembling and reaching out for things that weren't there; you were in a panic and I didn't know how to comfort you. I just held onto you and said all will be alright, there is no longer a reason to be afraid. You finally fell back asleep. Do you not remember?”

“Yes, I remember.” Abigail softly replied, head lowered, encouraging a stray lock of ashy-blonde hair to abandon its assigned position and drop over one eye. “Sometimes when I sleep I see everything again....well, not _everything_ , usually just the bad parts. The _worse_ parts. I try to bury it deep down where it won't hurt any more; or hurt less, at least. But it doesn't go away.” She raised her eyes and head; the former more than the latter; to look Diana in the eyes. “Is that how I am – crying and trembling and panicked and out of control? No one's ever seen me like that before. It must be shameful.”

While the being of each Amazon is guided by duty; purpose; and principle, none are so unbending as to be immune from sadness and sorrow and heartbreak. In reaching for their highest abilities only to fall through grief, despair or passion; to rise from the depths is often the greatest struggle. But among those of Themyscira, the most profound and honored of accomplishments is not that of the warrior; but of the women who know and honor themselves in truth and wisdom and love.

“There is no shame. We all have memories we'd choose to forget. You are strong by confronting your pain and in time, you will discover a way to prevail. I am honored to be in the presence of such a strong woman.”

“I don't feel so strong.”

“Sometimes it takes others to recognize in us the strengths we can't see ourselves.”

“What's this?” Reverend Smithchild paused to investigate the two comfortably-wrapped women huddled on deck. Enveloped toe-to-chin in bundled blankets, heads uncovered and hair unkempt, the Reverend could only identify each by the assumption that as one's hair was colored as sand while the other as dark as coffee; and one mass of bedding enclosed a body smaller than the other; that these must be Nurse Brieson and Nurse Prince.

“Well, a good morning to you two!” The Reverend chuckled. “Taking in the morning air?”

“Diana and me...and I...wanted to watch the stars and we fell asleep....it was such a nice night and the party was so wonderful and we so enjoyed your movies!”

“Yes, well, quite the busy day we have today. Isn't it time to be making ourselves presentable?”

The two women gathered up their blankets, pillows, and woven mats intended to carry wounded but equally useful as protection against wet decking; donned their coats (for which Abigail was thankful she had brought, as she hoped no one would see her in her night clothes; and Diana put on not due to modesty but because wearing ones coat is the most sensible action), and started for their cabins. At 7:30, they had already missed the beginning of morning exercise and Diana wondered who would be leading the physical training. Abigail wondered how quickly she could dress considering the ache in her back she'd developed from sleeping all night on the unforgiving deck.

No one had stepped forward to initiate the morning exercise and Diana's arrival was met not so much in welcome as in accommodation. She only had time to lead a few short stretching drills before breakfast and the bulk of the days schedule began.

Matron called for a nurses assembly on deck. She was certain to discuss loading procedures; classification and assignment of the men; duty stations; and other specifics vital for proper care of the sick and wounded; but as she droned along, it wasn't her voice that captivated the women's attention; it was the sight that lay before them. The Port of Alexandria was crowded with vessels of all types: Ships of War; others carrying cargo; and some that couldn't be identified. Smaller boats powered by motors, sail, and paddle weaved in and among the larger steamers, some purposefully, others appearing to roam at random. Beyond the port lay Alexandria itself; the ancient city founded by and named for the great Hero; through centuries passing under the influence of Greek; Arab; French; Egyptian; and, finally, the British Empire, the city was a mixture of exotic and familiar, archaic and modern. Even from the ship; still not even within the harbor itself; the women could see spires, domes, towers and castles, minarets and pillars; small square houses with flat roofs shimmering in the heat.

“....and Captain Bowerman assures me we should be movin' into the harbor any time; he's just waitin' for the 'All Steady' from the authorities. Once docked, we'll be proceeden' in our duties just as I've outlined. Any questions?” Matron concluded.

As none of the nurses were paying particular attention, no one had any questions.

“Very good. Ah! We're underway now. Remember, everyone in their blues and whites, starched and pressed. Spit-Spot.”

In short order the _Devanha_ had sailed into the harbor of Alexandria, guided by tugboats and the Captains skill; and supervised at the railings by the entire ships compliment of nurses, Medical Staff, dressers, aides, Rev. Smithchild, and any member of the crew that didn't have immediate responsibilities. With less flourish than Diana thought would be necessary, the ship hovered ever closer to the wooden dock toward its right; and with only a few feet to spare, a rash of quickly-barked orders propelled the crew into a flurry of synchronous activity as the engines are first reversed, then silenced; anchors are dropped and immediately excess chain recalled; various booms, covers, latches, hatches, doors, windows and ladders secured or loosened; and ropes tossed over the bow, stern and at various other points into the ready hands of English sailors and native workers waiting at the dock below.

It had become standard practice for Hospital ships to allow a partial days leave for nurses and staff to disembark and visit local sites. Even - or possibly particularly - during the depths of the War, efforts were made to provide a few hours of rest and relaxation for anyone with the ability and interest to tour exotic locales; undertake the uncertainty of local foods; and bargain at local markets. Or safely enjoy a comfortably-reassuring change of scene at any of the English-only hotels, restaurants, and clubs. But due to the number of vessels requiring dock space; along with desire of Military leadership to demonstrate their efforts to quickly 'bring the boys home'; the stay of any hospital ship was limited to only the time necessary for loading patients. Within minutes that the Devanha had been securely docked, the columns of wounded began to arrive.

Ambulances were first to report; both motored and pulled by horses. These carried men that were recovering from recent chest, abdominal and head wounds, as well as those that had lost one, or both, of their legs. Men who required the most care and least difficult ride. Immediately following were dozens of two-and four-wheel native carts, driven by Egyptians (most garbed in some element of a British uniform, rather that be a threadbare jacket; shapeless hat; or medical insignia pinned to their headwear), pulled by oxen; donkeys; worn-out horses; and in one instance what appeared to be a large goat paired with a small pony. Carrying from two to four wounded each, most notable about these wagons - other than their endemic appearance – was the massive clouds of dust surrounding them as they made their way from the unpaved street onto the wharf. As they neared the ship, the wounded sitting on these carts – as most were either recuperating from less severe injuries, or had gained enough strength in hospital to be designated moderately ambulatory – could be overheard laughing, singing, yelling out comments to their mates, and generally 'letting off a bit of steam'. Among the vehicles, some no more than a dray or barrow, wounded in groups of three our four walked together; most men either missing an arm, with a leg in cast, or head fully bandaged; all supporting one another with crutches, canes, braces and fortitude. Most heart-rending, however, was the single line of men, one behind the other and each holding onto the shoulder of the man before him, dutifully proceeding toward the ship and home; men with heads held high, in-step as if attending military parade; men who had been blinded.

Amid the commotion of docking, securing the ship, preparing davits and rigging for hauling aboard the HSC's – Hospital Ship Cases – (men cleared to leave a Field or General Hospital only because they require more advanced care in England); and among ships passengers the distracted curiosity of witnessing the arrival of wounded; at some point a gangway had been connected between the _Devanha_ and the dock, down which Captain Fuller, accompanied by two aides, proceeded while Colonel Hawkins took his position at the top of the ramp, Rev. Smithchild at his side; each of the two Majors stood at the ready between two of the ships derricks; and Subaltern Gladdle drifted among the various positions, a man demonstrating great intention but little direction.

 

* * *

 

“Let's get a move on, ladies!” Matron rallied. “You all know your assigned stations!”

Which, in fact, they did not.

“Give me patience I donna' even know why I bother. Miss Rowell, report to Major Price to receive stretchers. Miss Kelling, you have the same duty with Major Prestidge. Miss Chesterton... _find_ Subaltern Gladdle and assist him....as needed. Miss Taylor accompany me at the head of the gangway with Colonel Hawkins and the Reverend. We'll be welcomin' the men strong enough to walk on their own and directin' them to chairs. Nurses Lingbough; Cadfry; Prince tend to whatever men that'll be needin' a wee bit a' help.... Miss Brieson....ah, there ya' are. You head down to the dock and work with Captain Fuller and the aides in organizin' the mens classifications. They should all be carryin' their FMC's but the more hands the faster the work.”

“I will not work with that man.” Dressed head to calf in white, interrupted only by the bright red cross embroidered on the breast of her apron, blue-grey sleeves of her dress, and black stockings and boots peering from under her hemline, Abigail, although clothed as any other of the nurses, stood defiant not in her appearance but by her tone.

“Excuse me, Miss? I'm orderin' ya to report to Captain Fuller and assist 'em as directed.”

“No ma'am. Captain Fuller and I have had our.... _differences_.”

“Be that as it may, it won't be interferren' with your work. Now move along.”

“No, ma'am.”

“What's this now?” Throughout the voyage, Colonel Hawkins had intruded not at all between Matron Fainín and her nurses. Although technically in command of the entire medical staff, the opinion among all those onboard is he preferred the Matron take charge of her own ladies; and the Matron preferred to take charge. Yet at the sign of conflict; particularly now, at this sensitive time when not only had the ship begun to take on wounded but his command was under scrutiny not only by the ships compliment, but of the patients and those at dockside; he decided to step forward.

“Tis nothin' Colonel. Nurse Brieson is havin' a bit of a' problem understandin' my orders. Nothin' I canna handle myself.”

“Nonsense! That's what I'm here for, to make certain everything’s running top-notch. Now, what seems to be the concern, Miss?”

“Matron wants me to work with Captain Fuller. Captain Fuller and I do not agree on many subjects. If required to work together, I do not believe we can provide the best care for the men.”

“I see, I see” considered Colonel Hawkins, brushing his somewhat too-bushy mustache between thumb and forefinger. “We can't be letting our particularities stand in the way of our duties, Miss... Brieson, is it? I'm certain that once you two get to know each other, professionalism will stand forth and an understanding will be reached.”

“That's the problem, Colonel. The Captain is a little too eager to 'get to know me' and 'reach an understanding'.” She leaned in toward the officer, slowly pantomiming with the fingers of her right hand the universal sign of one seeking to share a confidence. Matron Fainín stepped forward, drifting inward conspiratorially.

Diana, standing a few feet away, had been cautiously observing the situation from the time she overheard Abigail's pronounced 'No'. She now watched the three in avid conversation and while unable to overhear anything specific of the discussion, she – along with Nurses Lingbough; Cadfry; three deckhands; one aide; Rev. Smithchild; and whomever else was in the general vicinity - had no problem _viewing_ the exchange. Amid hushed voices occasionally punctuated by an audible “My word”; “Saints have mercy”; “common Masher!”; and Abigail gesturing toward Diana more frequently than Diana would have wished; in short order the three stepped apart revealing a somewhat flustered Colonel; shocked Matron; and appeased Abigail.

“Yes, I'll be looking into this matter directly upon our return.” voiced Colonel Hawkins, removing his cap to mop is brow. “For the interim, Matron Fainín, I believe I can trust in your good judgment?”

“Certainly, Colonel. That's just the kind a' behavior I won't be standin' for. Miss Brieson, you will work with the nurses on deck in providing aid for patients that we've received. And to assist Captain Fuller, Nurse Lingbough....”

“I will assist the Captain.” Diana offered. “As I am not qualified to provide the same care as the others, perhaps I can be of best use in sorting and classifying wounded?”

“Diana!” questioned Abigail.

“Maybe that would be doin' us a service. Miss Lingbough, return to your station. Miss Prince will report to the dock and Captain Fuller. Be on your toes, Miss. You'll not be out of me eyesight.”

“Yes”, Diana answered, looking not at Matron but toward her friend. “My toes will be strong.”

Onboard ship, two davits had already begun hoisting HSC's aboard. In each case, from the dock a stretcher is loaded onto a wooden platform, itself attached at each corner by ropes which, about ten feet above the platform, connect to the haul rope - a master rope - which winds over multiple pulleys and among the block and tackle of the davit, or small loading crane common on every ship. A motorized winch on deck draws the haul rope, thereby lifting the platform to deck height were crewmen are waiting to steady the supporting ropes, guide the assembly over the railing and remove the stretcher so the platform can be again lowered to the dock and the process repeated. In all, the procedure required the attention of at least seven men, each with specific experience and skills, every time the apparatus was raised or lowered. It would be quite the amusing – or horrific – experience for the patient, if not most of those who required this ride had not already been heavily medicated. In combination with the noise and confusion of yelled orders; machinery; hoof-beats and wagon wheels on the wooden dock; drivers in native-tongue urging or berating their animals; the cackle and honk of chickens, ducks and geese which, along with some stray dogs, seemed to be roaming about for no specific reason; and the unnecessarily-loud singing and conversation among some of the soldiers, it was difficult to distinguish the structure amid the chaos.

Diana found Captain Fuller leaning into an oxcart to check the Field Medical Card of a stretcher case. His expression dropped as he saw Diana walking toward him. “Ah, Miss... _Nurse_ Prince, have you been sent to assist? Has your, um, comrade also been assigned this duty?”

“No, only I. The Matron and the Colonel thought it best if you be assisted by as few women as necessary.”

The Captain looked nervously up to the ship to find Colonel Hawkins; and Matron Fainín; both looking down at him. “The Colonel? I see. Well, what we're doing is checking men's classification cards and assigning them wards as required. Once I determine the level of care, I pass the information onto aide Brightly, who marks it down in his book. Then we indicate on the FMC....

“Oh my God!” A mans voice, panicked and powerless, rose above the bedlam. Diana turned to see men pointing upward, toward the ship; at the odd angle of a stretcher platform which hung halfway between the dock and the ships railing; at one of the supporting ropes which had failed its knot and had begun to unravel. Men rushed to the loading station in an effort to help, arriving only to realize nothing could be done. Onboard ship Major Price and Miss Rowell, assigned to this davit, were leaning over the railing, calling out encouragement to the wounded man, not knowing if he was conscious and hoping he was not; the faces of Colonel Hawkins; Matron Fainín; Subaltern Gladdle; nurses Lingbough; Cadfry; Chesterton and Brieson appeared and lined the rail as so many spectators, aware of the consequences of a situation and not knowing if they should remain or look away. Rev. Smithchild, while not Catholic, made the sign of the cross. The ships officer in charge of this station, Lieutenant Colver, could be heard barking orders: “Easy on, there! Let up on that slack - not too much! Steady!”. Captain Fuller, at Diana's back, yelled out 'Come to, men! Look sharp! Somebody...do something...”. Orders given more due to expectation rather than commitment. But there was nothing any man could do.

In a matter of seconds it was over. Gods experience time differently than mankind; what to us is only an instant, to the gods may be as minutes; or hours; or eons. Their only burden, is when in the world of men, to judge time as determined not by the standards of the gods but by the limitations of man. Diana noticed a coil of rope not more than fifteen feet away. In one motion, she dashed forward, grasping the coils and forming a loop at one end of the rope, gathering the lengths in her hands. While not the Lasso of Hestia, this would have to do. Judging the necessary distance, direction, and curve necessary, she hurled the rope skyward, adjusting its movement – in mid-flight – over the davit, curving the cable so the loop caught onto the bowed corner of the stretcher platform, upon contact securing itself - through a final arcing pull Diana initiated at the last moment – to the assembly. She handed the lengths she'd been holding to three men who had gathered to offer what help they could; to find their best service lay in holding the end of a rope with which they apparently had, in some manner unknown and unnoticed in the midst of their heroics, succeeded in rescuing the dangling stretcher.

The commotion and excitement of this event was of great annoyance to the goat, hitched in tandem with his pony companion and together to a cart which had just unloaded its cargo of wounded. The driver, deciding whatever may happen was not something he wanted to become involved with, urged his animals forward with whip and voice, only further distressing the horse and agitating his whiskered co-worker. Knowing only that men were yelling (and with no idea why), the goat determined this was an acceptable action and produced an un-earthly shriek resembling the shrill howl of a man whose foot had been run over by a truck. Not expecting this outburst, the pony took five steps backward, rearing up on his hind legs (and as they were harnessed together, lifting the goat into the air who surprisingly didn't appear to be alarmed but rather seemed to enjoy the experience); pushing the rear of this cart into the side of another, tipping it backward to the shock of both the driver, who had been sitting patiently, and the donkey, who, accustomed to hearing men yell, had been dozing in the sun. Believing that he had been ordered to move, but not knowing in which direction nor at what speed, the donkey dashed into full gallop, darting blindly through the crowded dock resulting in even greater mayhem as animals kicked and bucked and drivers struggled to keep control while the donkey gradually realized no one was stopping him and, at least for now, he was free to run as he wished. Because at the moment he had bolted forward, the unprepared driver lost his balance and fell into the harbor, resulting in even more confusion as men rushed to his aid.

Abigail, throughout it all and once she knew the stretcher had been secured and the wounded man was safe, had not taken her eyes off Diana. She struggled with what she had seen; of her friend who had not only taken actions startlingly inconsistent with any behavior she had shown at any time in this entire journey; or anything she'd even thought Diana possible of; but she had behaved as almost an entirely different person. Troubled by unspoken questions, only at the last moment did she comprehend the extent of the rampant menagerie below and called down to her friend in alarm:

“Diana! Watch out for that ass!”

“Pardon me nurse,” interjected Captain Fuller, bewildered and overwhelmed by the goings-on in which he found himself but eager to demonstrate his cleverness to rise above the mundane, “could I have your assistance with this mans bandage?”

Diana glanced up at Abigail in acknowledgment, then turned toward the Captain as the driver of the cart behind her reigned in his beast and the wagon passed on its way.

 

* * *

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**B**

 

**APPROVED: WAR MINISTRY CENSOR 27-12-18**

 

From: the Back of the Front, 25 December 1918

Dad and Mum,

I hope you find this letter before 1919 finds you! I was hoping to be home for the New Year – some of the fellows actually thought we'd be home for Christmas - but it seems the Army wasn't ready for the War to end and for now they don't know what to do with us. So we just wait and try to make the best of our time. There's no fighting, and everything’s quiet without those big guns going off round the clock, but that's all been replaced with marching and lifting. We've marched more in the past few weeks than we've had in months and every time an officer passes by he orders us to 'lift this' or 'pack this' or 'carry this' – by the time it's finished we'll have moved half the British army.

My mate Robert – the chap from Blackpool, who I told you attended two seasons University at Sheffield, wanted to be an engineer – was shot in the throat. It was touch and go for a bit, but he was got to hospital and I heard he's doing fine, but the docs say he might not be able to talk.

I'm tip-top. Got the cough, but everyone has that – the docs call it 'Trench Cough' and say it's from not getting enough fresh air and always being cold and clammy without a change of clothing. When I get home that's a good excuse to go to the beach like an old bludger! And maybe I can visit Bob, if he's better then.

Yesterday the Red Cross ladies, bless them all, brought us a feast – real meat (not from a can), potatoes in rum sauce, bread with jam, raisin pudding, almonds and everyone got a piece of fruit. I wrote you about how every day is the same, just grey and wet and sitting in the mud wondering when this will all be over one way or other. But just a few days before the Armistice, we all had an experience you're not going to believe, but it's the truth. I've told you some chaps become wonky, I don't think that's me but still I can't explain what happened. I was at my duty at the duckboards, when Chief arrived. I don't remember if I told you about Chief, he's an American Indian that moves from regiment to regiment trading bits and bobs we pick up – really just junk – for things we need. It's uncanny how he finds his way every few months. This time he brought three of his friends - men we've seen before (I think they are >< CENSORED BY WAR MINISTRY >< ) and - I swear - a woman. We've seen our share of Red Cross and nurses and telephone girls (I'm not making them up, either!), but this girl didn't seem to have any reason for being here. She was wearing a long black cape and didn't have a helmet or mask satchel or anything. Then – and this is what I saw, God stop me if it's not true - she took off her coverings and was wearing armour like Joan of Arc, not silver or gold but Union Jack red and blue. She was even carrying a shield and sword! She climbed up my ladder, going over the top, and I was too slapped back to try and stop her. Maybe we was seeing things because a few of the chaps started to follow but the officers yelled at everyone to stay in place. I heard the Huns rifles and MG fire, and was sorry that miss, whoever she was, sacrificed herself for nothing. Maybe I should have grabbed her, I don't know. But then Chief and his friends started to cross over, too – and before I knew it, orders was given that the Germans were falling back and for us to advance! It was a cakewalk – nearly nobody was shot, it was like the Germans had given up even before we started over. We kept going into the next village, >< CENSORED BY WAR MINISTRY >< it was some type of miracle. But I'll never forget seeing her crossing over and giving us all a bit of hope. It was a wonder.

Tell Harry I'm bringing home a Hun toasting fork for him if he promises not to stick anyone with it!

Love to all, chin up and I'll be with you soon!

Your son,

Henry

 

**APPROVED: WAR MINISTRY CENSOR 27-12-18**

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	10. Chapter 10

  **10**

 The _Devanha,_ in this last month of 1918, would be spared witness to most of the horrors of war. Unlike its responsibilities of years past: Landing troops at Gallipoli, remaining behind to draw fire while other ships made their withdrawal; pulling from the sea survivors of a ship sunk by torpedo, exposing herself to attack; and countless journeys as a hospital ship, often carrying men evacuated from the battlefield only hours before, still caked in mud and filth and blood. This voyage could expect no open wounds, or wounds so field-packed with cotton in an attempt to stop the bleeding that the dressings themselves had begun to fuse with the body and had to be painfully cut away; there would be no razor-sharp shrapnel to remove, exposed bones to attend, or ripped-open abdomens that required a nurse to hold in a mans intestines to prevent them from falling out. Lice would not be found creeping into every crevice; boys would not be paralyzed with shock, weak from dehydration or with swelled, blistering, blackened skin resulting from poison gas. And hopefully, no deaths would occur. The wounded onboard the _Devanha_ , settling into every bed, cot, chair, and deck-space available, had, with few exceptions, passed the point when mathematical odds projected the probability of recovery, seemingly as random as a throw of dice when one man with a simple shoulder wound would die while another thought certain not to make it through the night lives. But the efforts and sacrifice of countless nurses, doctors, stretcher bearers, and a fellows' 'mates' who applied the first field bandage was not finished; this 'jolly cruise' aboard a hospital ship was just another step in the months, years, or lifetime of recovery each man would endure. 

“Tip-top job, Matron” Colonel Hawkins commended as he, accompanied by Matron Fainín, completed their tour of the general wards, each bed occupied and attended to; and detached compartments devoted to cases classified “Helpless' - those requiring special or advanced care - as well as the 'Not Yet Diagnosed' suffering from nerves. 

“How are those two new nurses getting on – Miss Walker and Taylor, I believe? Both ANZACS, are they not?” 

“Both are experienced and arrive with the highest recommendations from 1st Australian General. They'll be givin' us no problems. But at times, the way they'll be speakin'....makes a person have to work to be understanin' 'em.” 

“Yes, I'm certain we all will make whatever adjustments are necessary.” 

Continuing to the open decks, now comfortably filled with men no longer needing special medical attention - the 'C-Sitting' cases – The Colonel and Matron were met by men just returned from dinner (which itself, in feeding over 300 men, was the fist time this voyage the kitchen had been tested to full effect), every man having claimed his own deckspace, cubbyhole, or chair that would serve as seat; bed; desk; location for tea; when gathered together as game tables; and personal address for the extent of the journey. 

Following the loading of wounded, which had continued through the morning and much of the afternoon, Captain Bowerman set his men to replenishing stocks of coal and water, work that extended till after dark. In these first weeks following the end of hostilities, dangers of sailing the Mediterranean had not disappeared; while German U-boats had either been destroyed or interned, thousands of mines waited to be located, removed or detonated. So, for the sake of ensuring the wounded are made comfortable; provide the nurses and medical staff time to attend to any unexpected cases; and allow the ships crew a decent nights rest, the Captain decided not to set sail for Cyprus until daybreak. In his role as 'Father Christmas', the hours between loading of the final cases and call of 'Lights out' provided ample time for Rev. Smithchild to visit every man, distributing servings of hot cocoa, Red Cross Christmas parcels, and a cheery “Merry Christmas!”. 

Abigail was absent from morning exercise. She, along with Miss Taylor, had been assigned night duty on the journey from Egypt to Cyprus – less than a day and a half, sailing time – and therefore were excused from daily schedules. Anxious to confront; no, that was too quarrelsome a word; anxious to _discuss_ with Diana what she had seen – or _thought_ she'd seen – when that hanging stretcher was saved was foremost on her mind and she'd been running the images round and round her head, almost as a motion picture that endlessly repeats but never reaches the end. “Diana _couldn't_ have done it. No one can move that fast. And throwing that heavy rope so it lands _just so_ would take years of practice”, she considered. “Diana's _athletic,_ but I've never seen her do much more than lead morning stretches and a few knee-bends. I don't even think she knows how to defend herself. Those men _must have_ been the ones who saved that stretcher. Maybe just the stress and confusion playing tricks with my eyes. But tricks don't save a man from falling fifty feet to his death.” 

Diana's greatest uncertainty had been exposed. She had no concerns about her ability to sail to Themyscira; locate the portal to the Underworld; defeat whatever demons or temptations or monsters or gods Hades may put in her path; and find and rescue Steve. She didn't know exactly _how_ she would achieve this, but she knew she _could_. What she hadn't expected, only a day into her journey, was to be confronted; no, to be _granted_ through the will of the gods someone whom she had not only become, somehow, connected with, but had grown to care for; to care for as much, if possibly _more_ ; but certainly differently; than her love for Steve. “My only goal was to travel alone and without question. I sought to neither encourage nor favor. The ship was only a means of transportation, it was not intended to serve as the forge of a bond”, she considered. “Abigail could not have overlooked my actions at the dock. She is smart and perceptive. How do I explain actions that no man can achieve? I have sought to remain calm and quiet; have resigned myself to appear dispassionate, my true abilities unknown. But I cannot allow the death of an innocent. Rather than questioning my actions; my purpose; perhaps she will regard what she saw as nothing more than disorienting effects of confusion and discord, or possibly as a trick of Hermes. But I do not believe Abigail knows of the tricks of Hermes.” 

It was the calm of the evening. The wounded had begun to settle in for the night and those nurses who continued at work – all on duty having divided among themselves short intervals for a quick supper – rushed between cots, answering men's calls for a drink of water; a cigarette lighted; a bandage tightened; a bandage loosened; a drink of lemonade; his pillow adjusted; his sling lowered; a drink of hot tea; ointment applied; a window closed; pain medication; a window opened; 'I can't go to sleep'; 'I can't stay awake'; another drink. Times when the cry 'Nurse!' rings out, on arrival only to find not a call for assistance but a patient talking in his sleep. And the work had only begun. 

“Excuse me, nurse...uh, Miss Prince?” Rev. Smithchild was kneeling beside the bed of what, at first appearance, seemed to contain nothing but a mass of bandages covered with a light sheet. A gas case. Only when within a few inches of the form could a small opening be seen that had been made for the mans mouth and nostrils. “If you can spare a few moments, Miss....” 

Diana had been cutting grapes into small pieces and placing them between the lips of a patient, one arm elevated in a sling, the other unaccounted for; with a large 'NO LIQUIDS' sign placed at the end of his cot. “Go on, Nurse, I've had enough. There's other blokes who need more help 'en me.”

“Call if you need anything. Are you certain there is no more I can do?”

“More 'en enough, Sister. Maybe I kin get me' sleep, now.”

She carefully tucked the mans blanket around his shoulder and softly moved; as there were already many men sleeping; the short distance to the Reverend. 

“Yes, Reverend Smithchild, how can I help?” 

From the time the first wounded had been brought onboard the Reverend had been in continual motion. As the men arrived, he busied himself offering each a cup of water or a mug of tea; a reassuring word or to join in a short prayer. He scarcely had time to greet every arrival – his tasks took a long time, as many men needed the mug held to their lips - before all were settled and the complexities of serving dinner to hundreds of men began. Even as 'Lights Out' sounded and despite the darkness his voice could be heard throughout the night. For the men wanted to talk, to tell of trenches and charges, of the dead and dying, of flies and fleas and thirst. Of desperation; of the horrors they have witnessed but struggled to describe, or the loneliness of no one willing to listen. From each man Rev. Smithchild attempted to understand; and pretended if he did not. “Be at ease, lad”, spoke the strong but calming voice through the darkness. “We're sailing along toward home! Far away from struggles and loss. All is calm and quiet and your duty now is only to rest and restore your health.” When he had called for Diana's assistance, the Reverend had been kneeling before the wounded over twelve hours. 

“Ah, nurse, this is Sergeant Matthews. He wants to write a letter to his wife, let her know he's safe and will be soon returning home. There's some things he wants to say that....he feels more comfortable if conveyed by a woman. Personal thoughts, and all that. Doesn't think it's things two men should be discussing. Could you jot down his message?” 

“Of course. Anything.” 

“Thank you, sister. You're a blessing.” Rev. Smithchild stood to leave; slightly stumbling before steadying himself on an empty gurney, straightening his back and moving on to the next man. “Ah, what have we here? Taking it easy in bed, I see?” 

“Hello, Sergeant. My name is Diana. How can I help?” 

“I wan' me wife ta' know....” 

Diana had to bend toward the mans mouth to recognize the words he was attempting to form. 

“...tell 'er tat' me arrangement with Mr. McGuffy says me family kin stay on ta' lan' till we choose ta' leave, he'll not be throwin' ya' off....an' me importan' papers I lef' with Squire Blackthorn. He'll be watchin' out if you'r needing' any help....” 

Sergeant Matthews paused to catch his breath. 

“....tell 'er ta take care o' ta' little unes, and watch out for young Thomas, he's got a mind of 'is own....” 

“Would you like to tell her you are safe and am returning home? That she can visit once you have been assigned a hospital?” 

“Tis no use, Ma’am.”, the patient breathed. “I'll not be goin' home. I'm dyin'.” 

“No! Do not think such a thing. You would not be on this ship if you were not strong!” 

There was no reply. 

“How shall I address your letter? Shall I write 'To my dearest wife'? 'With all my love'?” 

“Thank ya', tat' sounds fine. But she'll might be wonderin' why I never tol' her tat' before.” 

Diana assured the soldier she'd post his letter, made certain he was as comfortable as possible, and stepped outside; both in continuation of her duties to the wounded on deck, as well as for a breath of fresh air. Gazing at the reflection of the moon and stars on the water, she didn't notice and almost stumbled over the man in a deck chair, sitting adjacent to the doorway and appearing whole but for his bandaged head. While purposefully sketching on a drawing pad, he did not look at the paper but into the distance, distracted by something unseen. 

“Oh, excuse me, I didn't intend to disturb. I'm sorry if I struck your chair...” 

“No, no problem at all.” was the reply; the tone gracious and mannered although the man continued to gaze straight ahead and not look toward Diana. 

“I see you're drawing some....working on the illustration of a ….I'm sorry, in this light I can't clearly see what you've done. What are you drawing?” 

“I don't know. You tell me.” He looked up and Diana realized it's not only the top of his head that was wrapped; the bandage continued past his forehead and over his eyes. “Can't see a thing, you know. Doctors tell me it's _'_ demyelinization and subsequent atrophy resulting from optic nerve trauma leading to temporary loss of vision'. _Temporary_ for five months now. Shrapnel, sliced through my optic nerves. Damn lucky....pardon me, Miss; _remarkably_ lucky didn't effect my brain. Lot of unlucky blokes who will never be the same.” 

“I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?” 

“You can tell me with whom I have the pleasure of speaking. We haven't been properly introduced and that's not acceptable. I'm Major Laurence Woodbridge, at your service. Perhaps, not so much _at_ your service, as _requiring_ your service.” 

“I am Diana; Diana Prince. Nurse Diana Prince. How can I help?” 

“Lovely name. I don't need anything at the moment. That was just a bit of a jest.” 

“You are a brave man to find laughter in what you have suffered.” 

“I'm fortunate. Still have both my legs, my arms, my hands. Didn't live through gas or have half my face blown off. Just as dashing now as before! And the addition of a cane only contributes to the aire of rakishness. _Tant bien que mal_ _._ Amazing how the other senses step in once one is compromised. I can hear conversations from across the room; that will likely come in handy at parties, wouldn't you say? And scents! Of course, not every smell was intended to be admired. I can actually _feel_ that you're cold – no need to see you trembling or trying to cover your torso with your arms.”

(Diana immediately removes her arms crossed at her torso and places them at her side).

“So please, take my coat. There are few things more deplorable than for a gentlemen to see a woman in distress and do nothing about it. And as I can _see_ nothing, just the _thought_ of your distress is unconscionable.” 

“Thank you, but I am fine. I have a coat....” 

“...elsewhere? Then it is not keeping you warm _here_ , is it? Please, I insist. I have no plans to use it. I don't foresee taking in any rounds of golf or riding to hounds in the near future. Once at hospital I'm certain the doctors will find a nicely cushioned room for me where I won't injure myself each time I run into a wall. And I suspect those cushions can be rather insulating and cozy!” 

“It would be useful to be warm as I continue my duties. I will return the garment to you when I've completed my schedule....” 

“No need. Really, you would be providing great help by removing one less item I need to keep track of. A trenchcoat I can neither hear; smell; taste; and touch only if I first manage to locate it. Knowing it is being put to good service will provide the illusion that I continue to be of some use to someone. _Chagrin partagé, chagrin diminué; plaisir partagé, plaisir doublé._ ” 

“ _Merci, Major._ _Tenez-vous à votre courage avec les deux mains._ ” 

Diana draped the Majors coat over her shoulders and turned to check on the men spread about the deck. Directly in front of her stood Abigail. 

“Diana, are you _speaking French_!?”

 

* * *

 

Reporting to her night duty a few minutes early, Abigail had just reached the landing of the steps from the lower compartments to the upper decks, and was on her way to relieve Nurse Kelling in the surgical ward when she spotted Diana talking to a soldier. Although she hadn't been avoiding her friend; the heavy workload and conflicting schedules kept them apart; she'd had almost a full day to mull over the events at the dock; and while during much of that day she'd been asleep; or at least, in bed _trying_ to sleep – she'd always managed to resolve her most confounding problems while she slept. Unfortunately the solution to this mystery didn't benefit from her slumber and when they met she was just as confused and unprepared to talk to Diana, as Diana was awkwardly caught off-guard to suddenly be face-to-face with her friend. 

“Abigail! I was just talking with the Major. He... _reminded_ me of the French I had learned as a child. Did you overhear?” 

“Uh-huh. You sounded rather capable. In fact, are there any other things you're capable of you'd like to tell me? Yesterday at the dock, I _thought_ I saw you saving a mans life when everyone else seemed helpless. Is that what I saw, Diana?” 

“When the animals were running? Thank you for warning me, Abigail.” 

“Of course. Before that.” 

“When I was walking from the ship and I prevented a man from tripping on the step?” 

“After that.” 

“When I was assisting Dr. Fuller with the wounded?” 

“ _During_ that.” 

Diana took a deep breath. Abigail must be told; she _deserved_ to be told. But in these few moments between the change of schedule; when they are not alone but on the open deck among hundreds of wounded needing attention; when Diana has not yet understood her own feelings; this is not the time. Yet for this conversation, soon there would be no time remaining. 

“Abigail, please understand....” 

“I'll _always_ understand, Diana. Just, please tell me. Trust me.” 

“Not everything is always as it seems....” She paused to collect her thoughts. “...you are my friend and I am yours. That does not change. Believe in that whatever I tell you; whatever may occur; that does not change. But....” 

“Miss Brieson!” Matron Fainín was heard long before she was seen. “Miss Brie.... There you are, lass. Dr. Price, Nurses Kelling and Walker be needin' you at this minute. Can't stop the bleedin' from surgery and they need another pair o' hands. Hurry on, Miss, I thought you would have reported to duty by now.” 

“Yes, Matron, I was just talking with....” 

“No time for talkin' now. You can visit with your friend later.” 

“Yes, Matron. Diana, I want to know everything you have to tell me, I really do. Tomorrow, when I get off shift – can we talk then?” 

“Miss _Brieson_!” 

“Yes, Abigail, tomorrow. We must talk tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow arrived earlier than Diana wished. Captain Bowerman had departed Alexandria with the intention of arriving at the port of Limassol, Cyprus, no later than early-morning. As the harbor had little; some would say no; docking facilities for larger ships, small barges called lighters were utilized for transportation between ship and shore. This transit, and the greater challenges of hoisting wounded to a surging ship from a swaying barge, increased load time which the Captain already feared may continue past sunset. By the time breakfast had been finished, men had already begun embarking, and disembarking; the _Devanha._ Abigail would be off duty within the hour. 

“Move along, men, no time to dally!” Lines of men were moving from the ship down a gangway to the nearest lighter; even as another crowd formed on the barge to reverse the process. A sharply dressed Lieutenant barked orders from a slightly elevated platform at the front of the smaller boat; pants pressed and jacket fitted the officer could have been mistaken for an Avoider if not for the medals on his chest and line of service and wound stripes along his cuff. Cyprus served as the location for a series of convalescent camps established for wounded needing a bit more care and rest before undertaking the long journey to England; Australia; or India. While wounded marched, walked, and were carried fromthe ship, an even greater number prepared to board; those released from the camps, dressed in the 'going away costume' of blue pajamas with white cuffs and lapels; white shirt; red necktie and slippers; while those recently from Hospital, or with a slight debility, wearing a full khaki uniform with the addition of an extra muffler, mittens or other woolen not provided by the Army but knitted, in various shapes, sizes and qualities, by volunteers at home. 

Diana located Matron on deck, trying to convince Rev. Smithchild that his rest was of immediate importance: 

“....an' a fine lot you'll be doin' us all if we have to nurse you, too.” 

“Pardon me, Reverend; Ma'am....I have another hour before I report to ward duty. Would it be helpful for me to assist in the classification and loading of men, as I did at Alexandria?” 

Matron tossed the Reverend an admonishing side-glace before facing Diana. 

“Miss Prince. Is that topcoat of yours the uniform of the day?” 

“It was given to me by one of the wounded. He was trying to be kind and said he would be relieved if I accepted....” 

“I see no problems on ship as long as you wont' be wearin' it as part of your outdoor uniform. Wouldn't be appropriate. Now, very thoughtful of ya' to be volunteerin'. But you know every time a lighter comes and goes, you'll be havin' to climb up 'n down to the ship.” 

“I understand”, Diana replied. “Could a nurse travel with each boat and begin to gather the mens information before we reach the ship? Would that help in the classification and loading of wounded?” 

“Hmm. Interestin' thought. And by 'Nurse', I'm assumin' you be referrin' to yourself? And this from the Miss that weren't able to stan' on deck without turnin' queasy? So now you've found your sea legs! Does Miss Brieson have her sea legs, too? You wouldn't be volunteerin' that friend of yours also?” 

“No, she is still on duty in the wards. When her schedule is finished she will need rest. But as I am least experienced, and wish to help in any way, perhaps this simple paperwork is how I can best contribute?” 

“There's a column of men loadin' now. Follow the last one down and ask the Officer on the lighter if he'll permit a Nurse to join 'em. Tell 'em your idea about the FMCs and service envelopes. If he agrees, ya' might as well be stayin' on those boats all during the loadin'. What are you assigned to today? 

“General wards and deck. Assisting as I can.” 

“More cleanin' and adjsutin' bandages. The others can pick up the slack. Now don't be in the way; and you'll be responsible for yourself. Can I be havin' my faith in you?” 

“Yes, Matron, I will fulfill my duty.” 

Diana fell in behind a group of khaki-clad men; some dressed in uniform jacket and pants with leg wrappings; others with jacket and skirt, as Charlie would wear. Rather than hats, caps or helmets, the head of each was wrapped in a length of cloth as if bandaged; but none were covering a wound: The variously-colored and patterned turbans identified the soldiers as representatives of the British Indian Empire. While men filed into even columns along the lighters barren deck, many sitting cross-legged while others attempted to recline on one elbow, Diana stood at the base of the gangway searching for the boats officer. 

“You there! With the coat!” A commanding voice drew her attention. 

“Lieutenant?” 

“.... _Miss?”_

Carefully stepping around men and at one point avoiding a small dog someone had smuggled onboard, she made her way toward the Subaltern _._

“I am Nurse Prince. The Matron has sent me to assist with the identification and classification of wounded. With your permission, perhaps I can sail between the dock and the ship, preparing paperwork along the way? It would be of great help with our duties.” 

“Sail with each lighter? I don't know, Miss. It's not usual. Your Matron sent you, you say? Is this on orders from the ships MCO?” 

“I'm certain the Colonel will support any action to help the wounded.” 

“Yes, of course. It's fine with me, but I'm not the only Officer in charge of lighters. I'm alternating with Subaltern Willbourn, one of us casts off while the other loads. If you've been told to process all wounded you'll have to move between both boats each time we land. Could be quite the effort.” 

“I understand.” 

And thus, Diana established herself as an accepted fixture on each lighter, as the day continued becoming unnoticed and largely forgotten. This would make her final departure from HMHS _Devanha_ far more straightforward. But no less painful. 

It was on Diana's second trip from dock to ship when she found Abigail waiting for her at the top of the gangplank. 

“Diana, have you been assigned to loading duty _again_!? This is infuriating! When we will talk? 

“I'm sorry, Abigail. We don't have much time....."  


“Yes the lighters are loading up again. When you get off duty? I'll get up and dressed and meet you the _second_ that last boat arrives. That will give us _at least_ a few minutes before Matron needs me for something-or-other, and your duties for the day will be over. We can find a quiet place to talk. OK?” 

“Yes. When we talk, my duties will be over.” 

From the lighter Diana looked up and found Abigail waving to her from the railing. With one hand she pointed to the watch suspended from her lapel, her face bright with anticipation. Her blue, white and blonde form fading ever smaller as Diana sailed toward shore.

 

* * *

 

The sun was nearing the sea when Diana returned to her cabin. Outside, Subaltern Willbourn was supervising unloading of the final lighter, these latter boats remaining longer as HSC's, basket-cases and stretchers were hauled aboard. She removed her nurses uniform, retrieved and dressed in the armour she had hidden weeks before; over that donned the London suit that had served her so readily; and finally the coat given her by Major Woodbridge. Into one pocket she slipped the Christmas pendant, still boxed. Faithfully accounting for every piece of 'kit' that was provided her by the ships store, each carefully folded and placed on her bed in the order in which it was received; for a moment she considered carrying these, personally, to the storeroom window and returning them as she had promised; but quickly realized she couldn't venture possible encounters with other shipmates; questions asked; or curious glances. She hoped Mr. Tilley, the store clerk, would understand. Already she had slipped into the kitchen to gather something she would not be able to again obtain once she left the ship; any further exposure would be unnecessary risk. 

All that remained was the dress. Diana could not believe there would ever be a time she would wear it again; unsuitable on Themyscira and unlikely she would attend any future parties within the world of men (although within a matter of weeks she had oddly found herself present at two celebrations); the dress would only be an unnecessary something to take for no purpose. Yet the wonderful red, violet and golden gown Abigail had presented to her; made of her own clothing, with her own hands, a gesture of friendship and affection; a symbol of all that had grown between them. Diana would be forced to leave all else; even Abigail, herself, behind. Could she also abandon the token that bound them? She hold the gown up to her body, feeling once again the silk brush against her skin, treasuring the faint scents guarded within the fabric: Cinnamon and cloves and candles....ginger cookies, orange and pine and laughter....lavender and peppermint....

”No. Such thoughts will not help me fulfill my duty”. She replaced the dress to the closet, turned to leave....and stopped in mid-step. Twirling about on one heel, she reached forward, purposefully removing the gown from from its hanger, carefully folding it so as not to damage any of the trim and beading; and delicately placed it in her satchel beside her few other possessions. Loading of the wounded must, by now, be almost complete. It was time for the most difficult part of the journey. 

Diana took one last look at her room, empty now of anything she could call her own other than memories. Her hand hesitated on the door handle as she remembered the first time she'd opened that door, Abigail stood on the other side. Now this same door would be the first step in saying goodbye. Resolutely, she turned the handle and pulled the door forward. Abigail stood before her, arm raised and hand clasped in mid-air. 

“Diana! I was just about to knock! Mae told me she'd seen you come down to your room – is everything OK?” 

“I was on my way to talk with you. Come in; soon there will be no time.” 

“Oh, I'm not on duty for another twenty minutes. Have all the lighters finished? Did you have enough sailing for one day?” 

“That is not the time I am speaking of. My journey is not over.” 

Abigail sat on the edge of Diana's bed, only then noticing she shared the space with piles of carefully folded clothes; the uniform which her friend should be wearing now replaced by a practical grey suit. 

“Diana, are you gong ashore? Why are you dressed....and your uniforms all on your bed....were you transferred? Are you going to France – or back to London! I'll talk to Matron – I'll talk to Colonel Hawkins! We can go together!” 

“I do not know when I will be returning to London.” 

“But when the ship sails back with all the wounded....” 

“I will not be with you, then.” 

“Did something happen? Did you resign? Does that explain your....some of the things I saw?” 

“Abigail, for some the war is not over.” 

“I know, we all have our memories...and our wounds. But there's no more fighting and Captain Bowerman will be careful of any mines and there's no submarines or _anything_ that can hurt us. You taught me that, Diana.” 

“It is difficult to explain...but some of my actions in the past formed consequences which are not yet resolved...there is suffering I can stop, pain I can lessen...those that still need to be saved.” 

“Diana, we're saving men every day! _I don't understand!_ ” 

Through a deep exhale, Diana lowered herself on one knee and took her friends hands into her own. 

“Abigail, I am not a nurse. I did not sail to Cyprus to accompany the wounded back to London. My duty lies elsewhere, and this voyage is only a small part. I am leaving the ship here, and must continue my journey where others cannot go.” 

“You mean you were... _lying_?!” 

The familiarity of her own words strikes Diana as a blow stronger than any she has received in battle. 

“I did not intend to mislead anyone. Each person saw in me what they wanted to see.” 

“And what did I see, Diana? I thought I saw someone who cared about me and it didn't matter if I was smart or brave or strong or even pretty.” She gazed at their interconnected hands and slightly tightened her grip. “I thought we were together.” 

“I do care. And you are all those things, and more. That is why you must remain onboard and complete the journey. I've watched your compassion for the men, how you treat each one with understanding, how you give of yourself so that others can have hope. And how they look at you in peace. You are their salvation. They need you. My purpose is along another path. And that is why we cannot remain together.” 

“There's nothing I do that any other nurse couldn't.....I don't mean to them what you mean to me. I'd go with you Diana. If you just wanted me.” 

“I do not want to be without you, Abigail. But it is these same desires that have already harmed others. The journey is too dangerous and unknown. I have once lost a part of my heart. I will not lose another.” 

Diana leans forward and feels the caress of Abigail's hair on her cheek. She smells of lavender and peppermint and now...something more. Softly whispering into her friends ear: 

“Μαζί κάποτε, δεν θα είμαστε ποτέ χώρια”; 

Diana gently kisses her. And leaves.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

As Hippolyta would not allow her daughter to face the dangers of the seas, any knowledge Diana has of sailing comes not from her tutors but by hiding from her mother and accompanying Amazonian Seafishers as they embarked upon each mornings' work. Therefore her familiarity lay not in sailing long distances or battling rough seas, but in maneuvering among sheltered coves; not by navigating from one point to another but only in finding her way back to where she had begun. Still, she had learned the basics of the constellations; winds and currents; and understood that if approached in conviction and acceptance, Eurybia, Goddess of Mastery over the sea, would be at her side.

Traveling as the lone passenger on the final lighters' return to Limassol – Subaltern Willbourn assuming the nurse was reporting to shore for some duty not within his authority – immediately upon landing Diana sought out a small vessel she could sail to Themyscira. The last of the suns radiance was fading to black as she walked along the shoreline, among the fishermen storing their nets, securing rigging, and preparing for the next mornings work. In the last of the days light she could only just identify greyed colors and dulled forms, so the sudden surprise, to her left and only a few feet above her head, of a large bird, itself black but clearly visible against the darkening sky, was an unexpected curiosity.

“ _Krrralll! Krrralll!_ ” The bird; a raven; landed on the bow of a small vessel not twenty yards away. Diana was familiar with ravens; harmless yet cunning and shrewd, on Themyscira pairs and families of the birds would raid grain fields on the exact day the harvest had ripened. From stories, she remembered among some cultures the raven is seen as a messenger or guide, possibly even a minor god appearing not in its true form but able to change and modify its appearance to that of a fox; or wolf; or bear; or raven or any other animal it chooses. But that magic could only be wielded by the most clever gods. She curved around the boat and continued searching for a fisherman with a boat not in use; or an abandoned vessel that could be secured for what few items she could offer in trade.

“Akh, be gone, vile bird. You will not be taking any fish today!” A small man, clothed only in trousers which even for him were too short; sandals; a simple, loose linen shirt covered by a tattered jacket; and a flat, small-billed black felt cap, half-heartedly waved a stick at the raven, urging it away. Diana continued walking, unnoticed.

“ _Onk onk onk onk_.” The raven settled on a rock directly in front of her.

“I have nothing for you. Go; it is time for birds to be in their nests.”

“ _Onk onk onk onk_.” At this distance, she could see the birds neck was ringed in a pattern of dappled white and black, and from the back of its head feathers jutted out at odd angles; obviously this bird was alone, for if it had been part of a family the offending feathers would have been groomed away.

“If you are alone I am sorry. But I, also, must find a way back to my home.”

Diana moved forward and as she neared the bird it bounded skyward, darting past her, circling around and landing at her feet.

“ _Krrralll krraalll!_ ” He hopped into the air, again circling Diana before alighting, once more, on the same small boat he had selected before.

“ _Keekle keekle kee!_ ” Diana turned to see the fisherman pick up a rock and raise his arm.

“I said be gone! If you will not listen to words, maybe you will listen to force!”

Diana hurried back down the beach until she stood before the man.

“Do not harm that creature.”

The presence of a woman among the fishermen was unusual. A western woman, dressed in fine clothes and a British Army overcoat, appearing at nightfall with a determined look in her eyes and noble yet formidable stance, could not be explained.

“The bird, he will eat my fish. It is all I have. For my family, we have little...”

“The bird is...my companion. I am sorry if he is an annoyance. He is harmless.”

“ _Keekle keekle oop_.”

“That boat he is sitting on; it does not have any fishing equipment. Is it in use?”

“Ha! I would wish so. It is the boat of my brother-in-law. Together, we would bring back enough each day for his family and mine, with extra to sell at market. Then the English army came and said they need men to dig ditches and load ships and would pay in one month more than we could make in a year. He left promising he would return a rich man. But now the war is over and where is he? My sister is shrouded in worry and I, now I must care not only for my family, but also for his. Its presence is an offense. I spit on his name.”

“ _Keekle keekle oop!_ ”

“I am in need of a boat to depart tonight. I do not have any money; but possibly you will find value in this.”

Diana reaches into her satchel, beyond the little container she's secured inside, carefully avoiding the gown; and retrieves the hilt of the GodKiller.

Following her defeat of Ares, Diana had returned to the site of the German watchtower and searched the ruins for remains of the sword. No longer a weapon of defense or attack, the blade vaporized by the God of War before Diana had the opportunity to strike, only the handgrip – sculpted as two golden, entwined dragons – remained. The 'GodKiller', she had learned, lay not in the power of the sword; but within her. Or so she had been told by Ares. Who had no motive to lie. And little justification to tell the truth. She didn't know what compelled her to comb through twisted piles of wood and metal and masonry in search of something which was now little more than an ornate curiosity. Perhaps, by retrieving what remained of the weapon, Diana was not reclaiming the remains of a revered relic but attempting to connect the physical form of a prophecy she had believed greater than any individual with the unexpected strengths she found within herself.

“I can offer this....this golden ornament in exchange for the boat. I do not know its value, but it is; _was_ ; held in highest esteem by my people.”

“I am a simple man with many mouths to feed. Pretty trinkets do not fill stomachs. Yes, the boat I would sell for a pittance, but not for....”

Moonlight reached through the clouded sky and illuminated the gilded dragons.

“...you say it is gold? This item, what is it? Does it have value?”

“It is a relic of my people. To us it was priceless.”

“And you will exchange _this_ , for the useless boat of my worthless brother-in-law?

“ _Keekle keekle kee!_ ”

“Yes, if you believe that is fair. I can offer nothing else.”

The fisherman took the hilt from Diana's hands and held it close, examining every detail; extended his arm into the moonlight and observed the dragons from every angle; then pulled it again close to his eyes. Finally he bit into the tail of one of the serpents, resulting in both the unpleasant sound of metal against tooth; but also a wary but satisfied “ahhh' as a smile formed on the fisherman’s lips.

“Yes....yes, that is a fair exchange. Very good. Are there...will there be...does anyone else know of this _ornament_?”

“I am the only one responsible for its care.”

“Very good! It is settled. Here, I will also provide a loaf of bread, these few dried fish and a jug of water for your journey. Very good. Very very good. Look, your bird – it is flying away!”

“ _Keekle keekle KRRALLL”_

 

* * *

 

 To sail from Themyscira to Cyprus is a voyage of only a few hours. However Diana was not departing from the north of the island, but from a southern port which required encircling to the west which, if following the coastline, is safely and easily accomplished in less than half a day. Upon reaching the north-western peninsula, however, the most direct route called for leaving the sight of land and sailing north-east until Themyscira is found. Which encounters the challenge of locating an island that the gods have purposely hidden from view. And the totality of Diana's seafaring experience is the journey from London to Limassol upon the _Devanha_ that required from her no effort or attention; and sailing from Themyscira to London which had been handled by Steve; and through most of that trip she had been asleep (although she continued to be puzzled how they arrived in England so quickly and easily, or why she had slept so long).

Yet Diana was confident of this route and by always keeping the lights from towns and villages on her right, she had an uneventful journey through the night, even dozing for a few minutes whenever she could clearly see a straight path between illuminations and tying the rudder to follow that path. By the time the small craft rounded the peninsula the sky had begun to lighten and despite the overcast of uncertain winter weather she had made note of the celestial positions and felt assured through measuring movement of the sun; memories of lessons taught her by the SeaFishers; and faith in Eurybia she would soon return home. The rain which had begun to fall was of no concern. Strong winds that suddenly and violently arose from the East could be overcome by careful watch on the sail and rigging. Waves rocked the small boat to-and-fro; but was she not accustomed to this movement from her weeks aboard the _Devanha_? Within hours clouds masked the sun and only by guess; presumption; and the time indicated by Steve's watch was she able to speculate on her position. Yes, everything was fine. All was under control. The whirlpool, however, was unanticipated.

In calm weather she would have heard the wail of rushing water long before she saw the vortex; but rain, wind, wave and snapping of the sail had united into a unidentifiable roar that engulfed all other sounds. In an instant the boat was no longer moving forward; or side-to-side; or even rocking uncontrollably; but was being drawn horizontally into the spiral. Diana struggled to adjust the sail and pulled with all her strength on the rudder with no effect. She thrust an oar into its fitting, bracing her back along the side of the boat and holding tightly; but this only caused the boat, itself, to begin spinning and before she could retrieve the oar it splintered into the sea. Diana no longer needed to look down to see through the water; by simply turning her head from side to side could she look _into_ the water; walls that surrounded her, growing taller; her boat sliding further with each minute. Thinking, perhaps, the whirlpool was a small depression that would pull in the boat only to immediately toss it out a few yards away, when she did look down she saw not water nor wave nor flood; but what appeared to be grey masses that were formless yet each distinct; masses rising up from the depths; masses reaching out. Was this the portal to the Underworld which the Amazons had been duty-bound to seal? Had she come across what she had been committed to find, but long before she was prepared to undertake this part of her mission?

“ _Onk onk onk onk!_ ”

Beyond reason or understanding, a raven was perched on the height of the mast. Crouched low; talons gripping tightly to the rigging; wings alternating between open and closed in a struggle for balance; soaked and sodden; all Diana could clearly see was the birds shape; a band of white and black around its neck; and a mass of random feathers dripping from the back of its head.

“ _Krralll krralll! Onk onk onk!_ '

Despite which way the boat twisted; or in which direction the spiral pulled; the bird laboriously adjusted its position so his head always faced toward a single direction; twice it almost fell – or was blown off – yet each time it was able to hold on and maintain its angle.

“ _Kralll! Keekle keekle kee!”_

Quickly – from the sides, water-walls had almost overtaken the boat and below, the greyish masses drew nearer - Diana secured the ropes holding the sail as tightly as possible, in her haste once slipping and nearly falling overboard but somehow managing to keep hold of the rigging. Through will more than courage she threw herself, with all the energy she could gather, hard against the rudder, pushing the boat in the direction the raven was indicating.

“ _Keekle keekle Krak!_ ”

The spiraling vortex; the weight of thousands of pounds of water arching above the boat; and now, things unseen pulling from below joined to drag Diana into the depths. Yet despite their combined power, she somehow found within herself even greater strength. The tiller cracked and popped under the intense pressure; soon it would break and then there would be no refuge. In an explosive burst, not as the boat had _escaped_ from the deadlock but more as if it had been _released_ , the vessel suddenly thrust upward and forward, landing fifty yards or more from the vortex which immediately ...disappeared.

“ _greeble greeble greeble.”_

Dropping to the floor in relief and exhaustion, Diana scanned the boat and its occupants for damage. The raven had somehow managed to remain perched to the rigging and was now, even though light rain continued to fall, attempting to shake water from its feathers and preen itself dry. The wind seemed to have turned in their favor; the sail was full and the boat making good speed. Anything loose onboard – food; water; spare ropes; had been lost. Her satchel which she had jammed into a corner was soaked but intact. Diana was cut, bruised and waterlogged but recovering by the minute. Steve's watch had, as he had said, been through worse and she could hear the mechanism continue to move. In a sudden realization she reached into the pocket of Major Woodbridge's trenchcoat. The locket. It was not where she had placed it. Searching, she discovered the outer pocket of the coat led, through a hidden flap, to a corresponding inner pocket; where the locket, still in its small box, had landed. Diana sighed in relief and removed the lid.

_Diana: I hope you don't mind. While you were on duty I sneaked into your room and left this note. I thought since HMHS Devanha gave us presents to remember our voyage, then we should have something to remember each other. Not that I would ever forget you, or hopefully, you would ever have reason to forget me. But I - DO - expect to get a photograph of you!_

_I can't imagine what 'secrets' you have to share but whatever they are, know that you have my_

_Love always,_

_yours,_

_Abigail_

Diana carefully removed the locket from its container and opened the latch. Opposite the engraved dedication; in the cameo reserved for a remembrance; was a photograph of Abigail. Smiling.

As if walking through an invisible portal, immediately the overcast drizzle was replaced with a clear, brilliant sky. The sea became calm and what winds remained lessened to warm, gentle breezes. Ahead lay the familiar beaches, cliffs, hills and home of Themyscira.

 

* * *

 

As she guided the boat into the small, protected bay she had known since childhood Diana believed she was alone. Just as mysteriously as it appeared, upon reaching Themyscira the raven had flown off; circling the boat once and appearing to nod toward Diana just before he continued on his way. But perhaps this acknowledgment was only an illusion born of stress and fatigue.

Weeks ago she departed with Steve from this same bay; at that time, also, she believed they were alone and no others knew of their plan. Then her mother; the Queen; arrived, accompanied by Menalippe and the royal guard and Diana was forced into the farewells and separations she wished to avoid, her parting made to feel more as an abandonment. But now she had returned to this secluded location without fanfare or advance knowledge of any Amazon. Once her mother had told her “If you go, you may not return”; whether this was her prophecy or her fear Diana did not know. Now, with both feet firmly planted on the sand of Themyscira Diana felt the joy of homecoming along with its uncertainty; she had not returned in celebration of a duty completed, not seeking nor in expectation of glory or approval or even acknowledgment from her Queen; her family; her sisters; but she did hope for understanding. For this is only another step on a journey in which she could not know the final result.

Securing the boat to the simple wooden dock by a single rope and gathering her satchel she started toward a small cave she'd played in as a child. A few hours rest would allow her to recover from her journey and time to think clearly; to consider how to convince any who may dispute - chiefly, her mother and possibly the entire Senate – that while she had slain Ares and completed the sacred mission of the Amazons, her personal responsibilities remain to be fulfilled.

“Yes, I will soon know what to say. I will make them understand.”

But she would not have that time. Before her stood her four horses; Photine, her favorite since childhood, was saddled but held no rider; to either side were mounted Euthalia and Sostratre, Amazonian warriors whom Diana recognized as both acolytes of the Temple and members of the Royal Guard. Upon the first and foremost horse sat Menalippe, High Priestess of Themyscira; sister of Queen Hippolyta; and to Diana, her beloved Aunt.

“Diana, my niece. You have returned, just as I foresaw. Your mother will be overjoyed.”

 

* * *

 

“I could not stop her, sister, despite my most formidable efforts. Her strengths are....outside my understanding She draws upon something immeasurable, beyond powers we can oppose. And she appears to have been assisted; but by who, or what, I could not tell.”

In the refuge of the Gods, Hera – wife of Zeus; and Poseidon – God of the Seas and brother to Hera; sat opposite each other on marble benches, beside a fountain which did not spout water upward as much as shape the unmistakeable forms of animals, both earthly and of myth, which hovered above the font only seconds before dissolving into droplets and mist while another creature rose and solidified.

“That is unfortunate. The Daughter of Hippolyta has not been an annoyance until now. I desired to be rid of her before she becomes another of my husbands 'favorites'. She was presented the opportunity to redeem Ares, but by reacting only to instinct and 'feelings' she destroyed an Olympian and weakened us all. I had hoped from the unrest inside her would arise the perception and understanding of the Gods, not 'feelings' for an insignificant human. Just as Athena believes she can do as she wishes, make a fool of me while Zeus bends to her every triviality, so I fear this 'Diana' may discover her true strengths and become intractable. Soon she will attempt to enter the Underworld. Our brother Hades will end her pointless pursuits. She will be receiving no help in Hell.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

12

“Twenty-four dollars and a smoked ham isn't much to show for a full day, four races, and most of my left side full of splinters. But I did pick up nine points – no, that was three and five and a two on the 5 miler – _ten_ points. Would have finished second on the 25 mile and grabbed another five points if that gap hadn't shredded my tire and thrown me off. And if my leg wasn't so beat up I could be in this 50-miler, too.”

Steve sat outside the small tent he and James had set up that morning at the infield of the Sheepshead Motordrome; really, more of a Native teepee; or James' idea of a teepee, mostly just a simple lean-to tapering from top to bottom; but he thought this might raise the attention of the 'Wigwam' crew, the Indian Motorcycle racing team who favored all those Native-sounding names and once they saw James was riding one of their new V-twins, they would be so honored they would come over and ask him to join them. “Couldn't hurt, I guess. Like James said, this is the Big Time. Gotta make ourselves known. And it _does_ stand out, even if it's raising more wisecracks than flattery. Gets us noticed, though.”

He glanced at his own bike, the Douglas that has served him so well, now with a cracked fuel tank; broken crank pin; and front rim bent almost in half. “Will take a week, at least, to get all that right.” he considered. “Just about the same time for my leg to heal up. At least I can be eating all the ham I ever wanted.”

By the rules of the F.A.M (Federation of American Motorcyclists) and N.C.A. (National Cycling Association), only Professional Riders are eligible for the top prizes at any sanctioned race. And since that deadly September 1912 crash when Eddie Hasha and John Albright and six fans were killed – including three excited kids who probably shouldn't have been hanging over the safety rail, but it's too late to think of that now – there's been fewer places to race. Following that day, within the past two years, all sanctioned heats on the saucers had been disallowed; and even exhibitions on these circular, tightly-angled tracks was discouraged. When the press began calling these Motordromes, ' _Murderdromes_ ', leading to public outcry and greater scrutiny by local governments; and the same New Jersey officials that had proudly celebrated the opening of the nations newest and most ambitious track somberly announced it closed just a few months later; all official racing had shifted to the 'banked oval' tracks – often shared with autos or even bicycles and while perceived as safer, usually not as challenging and certainly not as thrilling.

From the daredevils that in 1908 created boardtrack racing in an attempt to challenge not only themselves but the capabilities of machine and man with no account to the risk but only the achievement, the sport had now become a struggle to seek ever faster speeds and set more ambitious records while proving that motorcycle racing isn't dangerous in itself and absolutely as safe as Rail Sledding or going over Niagara Falls in a barrel or _anything_ having to do with aviation. As long as you know what you're doing. And have good luck. As they say, it's 'two parts novelty and one part danger'. So for Steve – and all other amateurs who'd secured their F.A.M. competition card but hadn't yet met Professional status, every event was a battle to win or place while trying to avoid getting hurt – or killed. All for a few dollars for coming in first, second, or third – or maybe third place would be 'awarded' their prize in merchandise from a local vendor (explaining the ham) if you're lucky; or just a kiss from a local beauty if you weren't. It all depends how you look at it. While the main goal, other than not dying, was to collect as many points possible: Based on the order of finish or how many laps led or number of times passing; even 'good sportsmanship'; until, within one season, a rider accumulates the treasured '100' that leads to Professional status.

So Steve sat watching the 50-miler streak around him – to distract him from the pain, timing the passing of each cycle as he pulled a one or two or four-inch splinter from his thigh – knowing all the time with each race James was edging closer to his 100 – he'd vowed he'd make it this season – and was now only a few points away. Heck, he might even make it _this event_ . Two years ago, when James was on his own; Steve's aspirations were greater than his abilities; and the angled tracks banking at 45, 60 degrees and more were accepted, points could be racked up like billiard balls and James was just one race away from reaching his goal. But then there was Hansas' crash, and public uproar and rash decisions, and... “If only I'd had the chance.” Steve speculated. “Back when maybe it wasn't any _easier_ to win races and gain points – there wasn't a race where there weren't injuries or even deaths – but it was definitely _faster_.”

“Steve, hayadooin?”

A gruff but incompatibly easy-going voice pulled Steve back into the present.

“Ya collecting firewood, there? You want I should go for the doc?”

“No, most of these aren't as bad...AGGH....as they seem. Mostly just flesh wounds. Don't go any deeper once they hit the bone, you know.”

“Just lookin' at ya makes me wince. More splinters there than the 8th inning at the Polo Grounds.”

James had come across Leo Ross a little more than a year ago while searching for parts in Brooklyn. For a man who didn't appear to have a full-time occupation Leo was typically involved in some sort of tangled 'business opportunity' (usually best not to ask many questions about), and was willing and able to find most anything (some of which appeared from questionable origins). On race days James and Steve had come to rely on Leo to keep track of their oil, gas and spare parts; give the two a tow or push when moving up to the starting line; watch over their gear during the events; and generally be the boys biggest booster. But only in the NYC area, and _maybe_ New Jersey. Leo wouldn't travel any further.

“I've been thinking, Steve. It seems to me, ya' know, if you and James pooled your resources, there, so that instead of both of ya' competing against each other, maybe taking your turns and splittin' the prizes. At least until we got enough scratch to get two of those new Indians, one for each of ya.”

“Yeah, well you see the thing with that is... every time James is out there pulling in front of everyone else while the closest I'm getting to the track is pulling slivers of it...AWUPH....out of my body, is another time I'm not getting any closer to professional. And as long as I'm not even able to take a shot at those big wins, we'll have to keep fixin' up my old Douglas whenever I take a spill.”

“A person would think he'd be happy to see his pal; his _TEAMMATE_ – doin' good. And you're doin' fine, there, yourself, what with the prize money you've got today and, well, that ham.”

“Leo, you can't eat a ham. No, I guess you can. What I mean is winning a third-place Sunday dinner isn't going to get me where I need to be.”

“Tough luck hittin' that hole in the track and all. You'd think the management would do somethin'. Say, wasn't your family – or your girl – supposed to be here today? Hope they didn't see that crash. Could lead to unfortunate conclusions.”

Having removed the last splinters from his side – or the last he could find until a few revealed themselves, like they always do, by easing into undesirable positions at inconvenient times; Steve stood to take in the final laps of the race.

“No, that's the end of the month, the exhibition ride at Brighton. James' Uncle and Aunt and sister; my mother. My father, if he's in town...who knows if he'll make it. He's not really a big fan, if you get my meaning. Not that I'm looking forward to any of them watching....”

“I thought you and James' sister....”

“Yeah, don't know about that, either. I think she only puts up with me because I don't bow and scrape at her every wish and she thinks I'm a challenge. But some rich upstate boy comes around; or a college dandy with a high collar and more looks than sense...I can't compete with that.”

“Bud, you don't know from nothin'. Any gal who's only interested in hangin' on the arm of some pretty boy ain't the kind a gal you'd want, anyway. But a gal that sticks by ya even when you don't think you're good enough for her – that's the kind you don't let get away.”

The race announcer's voice rang over the track: _“And coming into the last lap the pack has split in two, I don't see how anyone's going to catch up with the leaders.....”_

“Sure, I guess you're right. Lot easier to say when you're not looking into her eyes and wondering if what's looking back at you – some sort of fire that makes her eyes almost golden – comes from passion or anger. Maybe both.”

“ _Approaching the far turn it's Boyd and Connell neck and neck, Tiernan, Dozier and Kernager close behind. This is the time when riders hope nothing goes wrong...”_

“Sounds like a handful. Would you want it any otha' way, or what?”

“ _Around the curve it's Number 7, Boyd in the lead with 'Comet' Connell on Number 3 drafting behind....Number 9, Tiernan's picking up speed but has a ways to go....”_

“Wait 'til you meet her. She's got even more Moxie than James. But easier on the eyes.”

“ _Back on the flattrack, halfway now, it's Boyd, 'Comet' Connell and Tiernan with Dozier and Kernager looking for an opportunity...”_

“If I had a gal like that I'd go to hell and back to maker' happy. Don't want to look back one day and see nothin' but your own shadow, pal.”

“ _Last curve and number 11, Kernagar's taking it up the boards, trying to get past....and Dozier, riding Number 6 looks like he's having problems and is dropping back...WHOA, almost ran into to by Stykes on 12...”_

“When the seasons over.....after next weeks exhibition, promised her there's nothing keeping us apart. I, uh, bought a ring...”

_'Looks like 'Comet's' getting into position, falling back to make his move...with just a few more yards to go in the curve....IT'S TIEIRNAN coming from the back, running the pace around Connell AND Boyd! Taking the lead on the straightway, can he keep up the speed....”_

“That's what I want to hear! When you gonna' ask the question? Wish you woulda' told me. I coulda' got it for ya' wholesale.”

“ _Tieirnan on 9 still in front but Connell trying to place himself in position to overtake...”_

“I was thinking just before the exhibition. When they come to watch, let her know she's just as important to me as riding; promise her that no matter what, she's more important than anything. And with a crowd around, be harder for her to say 'no'.”

“ _And it's Tieirnan for the win! Tieirnan for the win on number 9! Connell second, Boyd third. We might have a record here, folks!”_

“For all intensive purposes all a man is, pal, is how he stands by his promises. Would you look at dat, there. James took in first. What a guy.”

“Yeah. What a guy.”

 

* * *

 

The morning brought fog and drizzle to the Brighton Motordrome; enough that four of the mid-day manufacturers' presentation rides, an opportunity for them to show off their new machines for next year, had been postponed until after the Amateur / Professional exhibition that evening. By early afternoon the weather had cleared; nothing like the showers that had come up from nowhere earlier that October; and the brightening sky promised an exciting and eventful day commemorating the end of the season. After more than four months of racing the track was worn in some spots and slick with oil, grease, and fuel spills, made worse by the wet weather - it seemed the new owner wasn't as concerned with maintenance as he was with concession sales – but most of the riders had raced under more challenging conditions. And the rides today weren't _races_ ; Brighton is a bowl, steeply banked, now deemed dangerous and officially prohibited for competition by the F.A.M., so there was no reason to attempt any records. Most of the riders were more interested in ending the season without further damage to themselves or their motors; maybe an opportunity to gain a bit more experience, try out a new bike or salute those lost or injured; but not, at this time on this track, in testing or proving their abilities. Not that every rider, to a man, didn't want to win or place or at least lead for a few laps; a good showing in these final heats will keep your competitors on edge over the winter; just that today, putting your life on the line didn't feel as inescapable.

Race days would usually find James and Steve; or the _“Shamrock Twins”_ , the name James had come up with for their two-man racing team, driving together in the old Chase Model 'J' he'd purchased from a delivery service that had gone out of business. Not much more than a wagon with an engine and riding just about as comfortably, there was enough space in the back to fit both bikes, oil, fuel, and spares. But this Sunday was special, so the hauling duties had been turned over to Leo as Steve, James and Keri (in that order) packed into the rear seat behind their Aunt and Uncle in their new Rambler Cross-Country. At 38 horsepower it was a monster on the road; but as James' Uncle was proud to say, it made a _statement_.

“And we'll be comin' so near to Coney Island!” Kari announced as the ' _Funny Face? Funny Place!_ ' signs started to spring up along the roadside.

“Would be such a fine proposal if _someone_ would be takin' his favorite girl to Steeplechase or Luna or anywhere along the beach when his little races are over.”

After crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, the Rambler - with Uncle succeeding in simultaneously navigating while swiveling his head from side to side in case he saw anyone he knew; and so that anyone he knew would be certain to see him - had passed by the waterfront; curved between Prospect Park (where Aunt had commented on their lovely flowers) and the Greenwood Cemetery (where all in the car, excluding Steve, automatically made the sign of the cross over themselves); come near to the Sheepshead track where earlier that month James had, in fact, reached his 100 points and become eligible for F.A.M. Professional status; and continued down Ocean Parkway on it's way toward Neptune.

 _Steve:_ “These aren't 'little races', Ker. Once I hit Professional and start bringing in those hundreds and even thousand-dollar prizes...”

 _Aunt:_ “Those _'parks?!'_ After what happened there this summer!? Those poor people killed, and a child holding on for dear life...If you ask me,  none of those 'amusements' are safe!”

 _James:_ “It's not automatic, you know. Hitting Professional doesn't make money drop in your lap.”

 _Keri:_ “I'll just be wishin' as you ride around in circles you won't be hittin' anything else, like that hole you fell into last week, Steve Trevor.”

 _Steve:_ “I didn't 'fall into a hole' – the track hadn't been repaired and it came up on me before I could steer out of the way.”

 _Keri:_ “Then I'll be prayin' no other Spirits or Fairy Folk come outa' nowhere ta' catch ya' unknowin'.”

 _James:_ “Would you two like me to lie on the floorboard so you can yell into each others ears, instead of both of mine?”

 _Aunt:_ “Besides, you'll not be going on any ' _amusement excursions_ ' without a chaperone, young lady.”

 _Steve:_ “Sorry, James, sometimes I don't think Keri realizes how important these races are to our futures...”

 _Uncle:_ “Well, I see the the BRT's just about finished reinforcing the tracks down here. Got those new all-metal cars, you know.”

 _Keri:_ “Aunt, 'tis only Steve I'll be talkin' about. Are you sayin' he's not been earnin' your trust?”

 _Aunt:_ “Steve's a fine boy but it's not proper for a young woman to be alone in public with a man. Particularly at one of these mechanical parks where every diversion is designed so the two are crowded as closely together as possible. It's unrefined.”

 _Keri:_ Tis' more than diversions and amusements. There's historic plays and people from all over living right there like it's their home. All o' Ireland been's made up in a map from _peat brought all the way from_ _Éirinn_ ; they even have a way for travelin' to the North Pole and bringin' back a bit of a' iceberg. Tis' _educational_.”

 _Steve:_ “ _Only_ Steve? I've still got to _ask_ you to go, before you start planning our entire day.”

 _Uncle:_ “Hmm, construction's blocked Neptune past 6th. Looks like we'll have to take Canal to Coney Avenue and cut across to Sheepshead Road. We'll be passing the Giant Safety Coaster, Keri!”

 _Keri:_ “Bein' close is the whole point. James can come with us. He's about as un-amusing as can be.”

 _James:_ “How did I get involved? My only service is as the disinterested go-between.”

 _Uncle:_ “They say that's the biggest coaster in the world. Looks mighty big to me.”

 _Keri:_ “At least you'll be showin' _some_ level of interest, which is more than I can be sayin' for others in this car.”

 _James:_ “ _Dis-_ interested, Sis, means _Zero_ -interest.”

 _Steve:_ “All made of steel, too. The sun glints off it like fire. Bet that's a thrilling ride.”

 _Keri:_ “Zero is something.”

 _Aunt:_ “Looks like a death-trap.”

 _Uncle:_ “Here we are, Brighton Beach Stadium Motordrome. That wasn't a long trip at all.”

After parking the Rambler surprisingly close to the stadium (which Uncle thought was allowed due to the quality of his automobile, but was more a result of the traffic flagman recognizing James and Steve), the five headed into the infield to meet with Leo. As usual the combination of riders, assistants, promoters, friends, crew, and hangers-on filled the area; most only in groups of half-a-dozen or less, but some gatherings far larger, particularly clustered around those teams and individual riders sponsored by manufacturers; or even more so, consisting of the manufacturers teams themselves along with loyal fans. Even as individuals; doubles; and manufacturers ran the track, displaying personal skills and new innovations, the infield became a show of itself. Beyond the colorful banners advertising _Pennsylvania 'Oil Proof' Vacuum-cup tires_ or the _'NoJolt' seat_ , not far away was the Indian Motorcycle Co. 'Wigwam', a large tent painted with the stylized Indian Chief feathered headdress in speed-proclaiming yellows, reds and oranges. Between the pennants praising _'Neverout' gas headlights_ and _'Prest-o-Light' headlights – free service at any place at any time!,_ massed the Harley Davidson 'Wrecking Crew', officially the newest team to racing but making a significant showing with seven riders, a dozen motors, and a baby pig mascot. Within a few steps of one another could be found Thor Motorbike Supreme; the Flying Merkel 'Yellow Jackets'; Excelsior Motorcycles; Goodyear Tire and Rubber; and countless other companies advertising everything from handlebars to chains, all with riders sporting matching heavy-weight jerseys bearing prominent company logos just as knights of old adorned themselves in the heraldry of their kingdoms. New to Keri and her Aunt and Uncle who had never before attended a race – the first two due to lack of interest; the third lack of permission; it was an overwhelming experience.

“What a grand time!” Declared Uncle. “All these men taking their lives in their hands every day. Incredible. If I were a wee bit younger, I could see meself on one of those bikes, going fifty, maybe sixty miles per hour onto victory!”

“You'd have to go a little faster than that, Uncle” replied James. “We're reaching ninety, a hundred now. Records at One-Eleven.”

“One-hundred-and-eleven-miles per hour on those.... _bicycles with motors!?_ Exclaimed Aunt. “And for what reason? All they're doing is chasing each other around in circles. It's not like they're going anywhere.”

Keri chimed in: “From what I've been takin' to understan', the whole purpose is to be goin' as fast as possible without killin' yourself. Of course they don't have to go fast at all and no one'll be dead.”

“Here,” Steve interrupted. “This is us.”

They stood in front of the same pyramidal tent he and James had used all season, grand to them but obviously lacking when seen through unaccustomed eyes.

“Oh.” Sighed Keri. “How...befitting.”

Beside the tent, leaning on the fender of the Chase, a half-eaten apple in his hand, all were welcomed by Leo.

“Hayadooin?”

“Uncle, Aunt”, James stepped forward, “meet Leo Ross, he's our...supporter.”

“Yeah” Leo replied, chewing a bite of apple. “Whatever da boys need, I'm dare for 'em. Good ta meet 'cha.”

“Very nice to see James and Steve have someone 'in their corner' as they say.” announced Uncle as he extended his hand to meet Leo's, which he had just wiped on his shirt.

“Hmmph.” Announced Aunt.

“I been here 'bout an hour, Jimmy. Got all the bikes and such unloaded, ran them up for ya' and topped off the gas and oil, there. Should be tip-top. Steve, checked that valve and don't think it'll be causing ya any problems.”

“Great, appreciate it as always. But, uh...” James continued “...what's all that other stuff?”

Only then did Steve notice – and now that their attention had been drawn, so did the others – that the bed of the truck wasn't empty, or even held a few remaining racing supplies; but consisted of a cargo of medium-sized boxes, some sealed, others half-open partially revealing their contents; a small stack of car tires (a few still on wheels) that James didn’t think would fit any vehicle he or his family owns; a well-worn Kinetoscope; and a crate of chickens.

“Oh, dat there is some favors I'm holding for some guys. I thought since I had the truck, and there was space...ya' don't mind, do ya?”

“Where did all this come from? When did you have time to pick it up? And who are these 'guys'?”

“You know, just guys from the neighborhood, there. Didn' take no time at all. Some of it was just sittin' in the street. So – hey, who's the doll in the handsome _chapeau_? Anyone you want ta' introduce me to, Steve?”

“Sure. Leo, this is Keri. _ Keri _ , Leo. Keri, say hello to Leo.”

Leo bent into what should have been an awkward bow but more closely resembled someone fighting to extract a dog or small child from under a porch. “Very pleasant tidings on meetin' ya, miss.”

“Now did ya' go and leave your shoe untied, or are ya' hopin' someone dropped a nickel.”

Leos laugh practically shook the tent. “You're right Steve, she's a kicker!”

“And what have ya' been sayin' 'bout me, Steven Trevor?”

“Just that you're one of a kind.”

“Yeah, _ the _ one of a kind, ain't 'dat right, Steve? Didn't ya' have somethin' you was gonna' do, today?”

“Probably never should have told you...”

James, Keri, Uncle and Aunt looked from Steve to Leo and back again. Obviously the two shared some secret resulting in one holding a playful grin while the other looked as if he was about to be ill. This idea was reinforced when Steve dropped down on one knee.

“Steve, you sick?”

“Keri” Steve started out, certain this was a step he wanted to take but not knowing if this was exactly how it should be taken, “I know we're always scrapping like two people who can't stand each other....I don't know how you feel about it, but I only do it because when we argue I can talk honestly and not feel self-conscious....I'm not a sappy guy and the only way I know to show you how much I care is by not letting you always get your way and give you something to fight for...I don't have much to offer now, but we're doing real well with racing and it's only a matter of time before I reach professional....”

“For Christs sake, pal, ask her already.”

“...so I just want to ask if you feel the same, and if you do, would you be my wife?”

Uncle slapped Steve on the back. Aunt dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Keri said 'yes'.

Steve rose carrying both his weight; and that of his new fiancee – for as soon as he had asked and she accepted, she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly and settling a well-placed kiss on his cheek.

“And here I thought you'd never be askin', no matter how many hints and opportunities I've been given' ya.”

“Hints?” Steve laughed. “It sounded like you, basically, have disagreed with everything I said.”

“Back home, that's how a woman shows a man she's interested. An' surely you've been knowin' that?”

“No, but it's something I'll keep in mind.”

“Congrats, Steve. Couldn't ask for a better brother-in-law. Well, I guess I could _ask_ , but best to be satisfied with what I've got. Remember, sis, take it easy on him – at least for the first five years or so. We're not nearly as _genteel_ as he's accustomed to. Will take some time to break him in.”

“I don'na want him broken. I want him just the way he is.”

“Well,” James continued, “as this seems to be the time for making announcements, I also have something to say.”

“Got a gal hidden somewhere there, do ya Jimmy?” Leo prodded.

“No, not quite. Uncle; Aunt; Keri...Leo.... _Steve_...you know I just made it to one hundred points. Just in time, too, last meet of the season. I'd set out to make that goal, and I did it. But I'm not going to turn Professional.”

“What?” Steve uttered.

“In fact, I'm not going to be riding at all. Not on the track, that is. As soon as the seasons over – next week, in fact – I'm reporting for duty. I joined the Army.”

“James!”

“There's a lad!”

“Does your mother know about his?”

“Jimmy, youse goin' off to fight anudder mans war?”

“James...when we talked I thought we'd decided...”

“You decided, Steve, that this wasn't for you. I'd hoped we could be going together, but I respect your wishes. Besides, you'll have a new wife to take care of so best let us bachelors stop the Hun.”

Aunt spoke up. “James, your friend Leo is right. This isn't our war – not America's and certainly not Ireland’s. If the Brits want to send their boys to slaughter it's none of our doing. What are you thinking?”

“I've actually thought it out very well. England is begging for despatch riders; even more so if you can provide your own motor. I went up to Ottawa last month, they can take me immediately, be in training for only a week or so – I won't be fighting so just basics like marching and knowing who to salute – and shipped to England in time for New Years.”

Aunt had turned from dabbing tears to uncontrollable weeping.

“James, how could ya' be doin' this to me?” Keri pleaded. “Mother and Father expect ya' to take watch over me and now you're going off to get yourself killed?”

“I'll just be riding my motor, same as here. _Safer_ than here, they'll be no records to beat or riders cutting me off or holes in the track to catch my wheel. Probably just taking messages from one general to another. Be lucky if I ever even see fighting. And besides, Keri, you have Steve to take care of you.”

“James...” Steve hesitated “...I don't know what to say....If I had known you were serious I would have....oh damn, I don't know what I would have done. Are you certain?”

“It's done. Paperwork's completed. I didn't want to ruin our last days together.”

“ _Ladies and Gentlemen, please keep your seats for the Amateur Exhibition! There's food and drink vendors in the aisles, no need to risk surrendering your view! Up next, forty-seven – that's right, forty-seven motorcycles on the track at one time, all your favorite amateurs riding today not for prizes – not for status - but for your enjoyment! Riders, start is in thirty minutes!”_

“Ker, Uncle, Aunt, don't want to miss the heat. This is why you came, right? Kinda overshadowed by other things now, though”, Steve offered with far less enthusiasm than he thought this day would bring.

“Everything's fine”, James spoke with a bit more eagerness than was appropriate. “Don't worry, enjoy the race. My last chance to beat Steve – again! Go on up to the stands and I'll see you when it's over. Come'on Steve – the track's waiting.”

Keri grabbed onto Steve's shoulders and gave him a kiss on the cheek; then hugged him as though no matter how long she remained, it wouldn't be long enough. She turned to her brother, raised on her toes and kissed him both on one cheek, then the other; and for a moment took his hands into hers before she ran to catch up with her family.

“Funny” James said. “She hasn't done that since we were kids.”


	13. Chapter 13

13

“Steve, wasn't your mother and father supposed to be here today?”

Changing into their race gear inside the tent, Steve and James shared a bench while Leo stood outside as he had during each event throughout the season, fidgeting with a carburettor or creasing and re-creasing his hat. Apparently with nothing better to do, at times he almost seemed to be protecting the two riders.

“My mother, yes but she's not been feeling well. All the Docs tell me is it's a 'Woman's condition' and Maddy tells me not to worry. Here I am, old enough to be married and she's still trying to shield me from bad news. Father...well, he's in town but isn't exactly impressed by my 'waste of effort'. Saw him a few days ago, he tells me there's a war on and we all must do our duty and what kind of man would stand by....the same old bunk. Really knows how to build a guy up.”

James stood, putting his full weight on one leg, then the other, setting his feet into this boots. “He's never believed in you. No reason to think that would change now. Your mother, it's serious?”

“I have no idea. That's one reason I wanted to ask Keri now....so mother would know, ease her mind.”

“Congrats on the engagement, Steve. Seriously, I've been hoping for this a long time. Knowing you're watching out for her gives me one less worry when I'm overseas.”

Concentrating on lacing his left boot more attentively than necessary, Steve mentioned as offhandedly as possible,

“I suppose there's no talking you out of this. We're in a good position now – you can go Professional and I'm sure to make it next year. If I can make a good showing today, set myself up for next season...”

James had just slipped on the bulky wool sweater the pair wore while riding – the style he and Steve had chosen for their 'uniform', and that James had made official by hiring a local seamstress to embroider patches of twin shamrocks sewn to the chest – as, carefully selecting each word and with his eyes focused into a corner of the tent where there wasn't anything of particular interest to see, he took in and slowly released a deep breath.

“Today isn't for making a name for yourself, Steve – it's for finishing the season in one piece. For me...I don't see any other way and still keep my head held high. What do I have to look forward to? Keep racing – amateur, professional, it doesn't matter – make a few dollars, maybe be at the top a few years until I get hurt so bad I can't ride any more – then what? Become a store clerk or insurance salesman and tell stories of what was? A sad man with nothing to look forward to, holding onto what little he has to remember? This war, it's a chance to make a difference. It's not often a man has an opportunity to see something that's wrong and do what really matters. What kind of man would I be if I knew I could do this, and did nothing?”

The words his father had told him so many times, words applied interchangeably as instruction, discipline, and censure, came back to Steve as strongly as if he just now was standing beside his fathers desk, positioned to feel small and insignificant no matter if a boy or a man: _'If you see something wrong happening in the world you can either do something or you can do nothing.'_

“Makes me look like a heel for not going with you.”

“No, don't think like that. You've got your Mother, your sister, Keri, even your Father to keep you grounded. I've got nothing but racing and...you. Understand?”

“Just wish it was different. Who knows, maybe you'll come in first tonight, go out a hero.”

“Sure, why not?” James laughed, adjusting the straps of the leather leg-covers he'd taken to wearing. “Don't think I'm gonna have much of a chance to be a 'hero' in France, carrying messages between some general and his mademoiselles!”

Steve reached for his sweater; the original white now shaded a greyish-tan from oil and exhaust and dirt; and before pulling it on, admired the Kelly-green emblem.

“Can't have twin shamrocks when there's only one rider. After today, guess I won't be wearing this again.”

“ _Riders! Report to the track!”_

 

* * *

 

James and Steve stood by their motors at the base of the track; at the edge of the berm where wood met dirt and where Leo, oil can in one hand and rag in the other, scrutinized the surrounding riders. “Wit' so many on the track they's a couple pace laps while everyone gets goin'. So I'll give you a push, Jimmy, to get ya' on your way and then get Steve set up. OK with youse?”

The Amateur Exhibition had been set as a 50-miler. At Brighton Stadium, a third-mile track, that's 150 laps; about an hour of race time taking into account stops for fuel, oil and repairs; opportunities for leaders to be overtaken; breakdowns to occur; and favorite riders eliminated. The spectators will 'get their money's worth' - maybe there'll be a few accidents, too - as the tracks new owner had been advertising these past few weeks as _Fifty-for-Fifty_ , promising a record fifty riders on the track at one time; until last week when two guys dropped out and with a third still in the hospital. But now that sanctioned racing isn't allowed on the bowl tracks and admission can't be charged without riders forfeiting their amateur status, the owner will have to settle with _forty-seven_ riders while providing as many other distractions as possible to ensure big crowds stick around as long as possible spending on sodas and hot dogs.

Lining the track were many of the riders Steve and James had competed against these past two years – less some notable exceptions of those too injured to ride; a few with bikes too beat up; and men killed during the season. Among the familiar names: Boyd; Dozier; Hernagar; Neuland; Bostwick; and of course 'Comet' Connell, certain to attract fans; were a handful of newcomers, boys just off the dirt tracks and back roads who saw this exhibition as an entry into the standings, an opportunity to show off their abilities and prove they're determined and brave and tough enough to make it; because every new rider, in his mind, has the ability to be the best. Although once on the track experience usually has advantage over skills; and luck is generally more important than any amount of courage.

“ _Ladies and Gentlemen, the riders are starting off....”_

“Remember Jimmy,” Leo shouted against the rumble of twenty-eight motorcycles entering the track “no heroics today. Your fights not on the track anymore, pal.” Muscled forward with a running push punctuated by an encouraging swat to the top of his helmet, James joined the first circling pack.

“Steve, you set?”

At the base of the berm, Steve double and triple-checked the few potential problems he could actually address in these final seconds: Plug clips – connected and secure. Handlebars, seat, wheels - tightly bolted. New(er) tires, haven't seen more than a few hours use. Everything running smoothly and oil can in his pocket. All else had to be left to preparation and faith. By being in the second group to enter Steve would be a slight disadvantage. Even with the official start coming only after a car paced all the riders for a lap, he probably wouldn't be able to catch up, or even spot James until well into the heat. He gave the 'thumbs up' signal to Leo, who immediately began pushing his bike onto the track.

“Youse got nuttin' to prove, Steve. Think 'a your girl and your future.  Jimmy, he's gotta do what he's gotta do. Best thing for you is to be ther' for 'em.”

And with a smack to his helmet, Steve joined, along with forty-six other madmen, into the bedlam.

“ _Coming up to the line, pace car is swerving away and THERE THEY GO! First lap of the Fifty for Fifty, folks, it's anyone's race!”_

Within ten minutes, fifteen percent of the competitors had fallen away. Number 19, Dozier, blew a valve almost immediately; he headed in for repairs, but unlikely he'll be finished in time to rejoin the race. Kneers' chain, on number 6, broke in the third lap wrapping itself around his rear wheel, causing him to slide into number 15, Forschew; and Newhall, 42 taking all three machines out but with little harm to the riders. On 11, Warrick missed a hole in the track – or rather, he _didn't see_ the hole but ran directly into it, crushing his front rim and throwing splinters into 29, Burr, who had to abandon his ride due to pain and the blood running down his face and arms. And newcomer Van Kirk, riding 45, took a turn much faster than his experience allowed, depositing him and his bike in a heap just off the infield.

At twenty minutes, the group had cleanly separated into two packs – eleven frontrunners (every one a veteran with the exception of Fawcett, carrying number 41, who's taking more chances than necessary); with the remainder formed into a group a little less than a half-lap behind. Beyond some unforeseen event, none of the riders not currently in the lead could ever catch those setting the pace.

Forty-three minutes in, leaving most of the riders with fifteen or fewer laps to go, the field had been reduced to twenty-eight. The front-runners that had established themselves early remained in the lead, loosing only Kernagar (11) due to a shredded tire; and in a big disappointment to his fans, 'Comet' Connell sporting 'lucky' number 7 was out on lap 117 with a broken magneto. Rookie Fawcett had managed to stay within the leading pack – although at one point falling behind due to taking a chance that didn't pan out and almost costing him his life - but the race wasn't just taking its toll in terms of mechanics, but also in time. Two of the front-runners lost valuable laps when they were forced off the boards to replace a flat tire and repair a leaking fuel line. James, from the beginning among the top four or five, was hit with a broken valve spring that while easily repaired, cost him five laps. Steve had been lucky. Keeping pace with the leaders, he'd had no mechanical problems; his machine was running well; hadn't even needed to stop for gas or oil; and though mist had once again begun to move inland, decreasing visibility to only a few dozen feet, causing goggles to fog over and making an already-slippery track even more uncertain, he'd managed to avoid any significant problems.

“ _What a race, folks! Even lightning couldn't keep up with these boys! I don't think anyone set out to break any records tonight, but records be damned!”_

The mist now turning to drizzle, goggles clouded and hazed, Steve concentrated on keeping in his mind not his position nor his standing but a clear picture of where he was on the track, plotting his course in anticipation of what should be directly ahead, acting on second-by-second decisions rather than reacting to the dynamics of others. With little regard, other than to their and his own immediate safety, he kept his focus on the track – until from the corner of his eye he spotted a hand waving in his direction. James, against all odds, had re-gained his position and was riding side-by-side with Steve.

“ _Ladies and Gentlemen, just when we thought it was all wrapping up – it looks like a whole new race! We've got Trevor on 32, and Tiernan on 9, teammates who appear to have decided that if one wins, they both win!”_

Separated by only a few feet, Steve and James alternated, only inches at a time, between first and second place. Dashing past the spectator stands, testing each other more as rivals than teammates, Steve thought he saw a white flag waving at them from the sidelines; but with this fog, it was impossible to say who the flag was directed at, or if there was even a flag at all. From off the edge of the berm, also; was that Leo, waving and gesturing toward them? Probably just encouraging them on.

“ _Well folks, hard to tell when this race will be over....Tiernan and Trevor are still in front, with Stykes on 3, Neuland 14 and that new boy Fawcett riding 41 not giving up yet. We don't know anything about Fawcett but if today's any indication, we'll be hearing a lot about him soon!_

James continued to wave toward Steve whenever he succeeded in gaining his friends attention. “What's he want?” Steve thought. “Is he having some kind of trouble? We only have another three, four laps to go. Everything on his bike looks fine from here...”

Within the last few laps Stykes had positioned himself to draft behind James. An experienced rider – both James and Steve had competed against him in multiple meets – he was probably setting himself up to 'run the pace', a maneuver where the man behind the first-place rider follows in the wake of the leader, saving fuel and cutting down on effort by machine and man, until the final moments when, just before crashing into the bike in front, he would swerve around the front-runner, heading slightly up the banked track and then dropping down in front of the leader. When timed correctly, and if he was then able to hold his speed for the next few seconds, he would walk away in first place leaving the others, literally, 'in his dust'.

“ _Final laps - unless these boys decide to ride all night! Shamrock Twins in the lead, Stykes taking position behind and Fawcett keeping low, almost running off the track. What's he got planned?”_

Although no rider in the midst of a race can clearly hear the announcer; or the crowd; or even their own breathing; Steve was aware of Stykes. “Yeah, trying to pull that gimmick again. Against James. On his last race. When he deserves the win and I'm coming in right behind him. No one's going to interfere with that. Not if I can help it.”

Steve fell back a few feet. “If I can time a block at the same instant he pulls out...I can force him back giving James free track....”

“ _Looks like Trevor is falling behind. Is he having problems? Does he wish now he'd stopped for gas when he could have made up that time?_

As Steve fell back, James quickly gestured his right hand in two quick sweeps toward his teammate, apparently satisfied Steve had seen and acknowledged whatever it was he was trying to tell him. At the same moment, Stykes flew forward, quickly gaining on James but with Steve anticipating and quickly curving his motor into Stykes path, causing him not to fall back, as Steve had planned, but to swerve to his left into a hole in the track - the same hole that Warrick had hit early in the meet and that now every other rider was aware of, had successfully avoided and Stykes would have escaped again if not for Steve blocking his path – flipping Stykes off and onto the track, the momentum carrying him along on his back and side. His machine - Number 3 – twisted past the hole, slamming into James, who was until then unaware of what was happening directly above and slightly behind him. Knocked off his motor, James tumbled down the banked curve, chased by his bike spiraling end-over-end, threatening to impale or crush its owner. Through bad luck or poor timing or fate, as Stykes began his run Fawcett attempted to slide up, past James, from below. A rookie move – dangerous and foolhardy, while not banned outright certainly denounced by all experienced riders – Fawcett had succeeded in passing James and appeared to be on his way to a win when Stykes' bike crashed down directly in front of the new leader, causing him to swerve to his right – and into the path of James and his motor. All five – James; Fawcett; and both their bikes along with Stykes' machine; thrown together, jumbled until indistinguishable; pieces of machinery flying into the air, shattering among the infield and sliding along the boards; and a single leather helmet, now removed from any purpose, left slowly rocking to-and-fro on the slick track.

“ _Ladies and Gentlemen, there seems to have been a significant accident involving at least three competitors.....I don't know exactly what happened...no, no, please keep your seats, help is on the way....someone, flag down those following riders, they can't see what's happened....oh my God, they're not slowing, some are swerving away but too late, I think some of those poor boys are being run over.....Everyone, please, please, stay in your seats!”_

 

* * *

 

At the funeral Steve remained toward the back, partially hidden behind a small stand of trees. He'd seen the initial accident – when Stykes had lost control, crashing into James – but by the time he'd registered what had happened he was a quarter mile down the track and shortly thereafter the race had been halted. He hadn't seen the collision with Fawcett – or the resulting violence when five, six, some say more riders from the following pack had run into the debris, themselves loosing control and a few colliding with the fallen drivers. Stykes was beaten, bruised and filled with splinters but would recover. Fawcett was rushed to the hospital with internal injuries, more broken bones than the docs could determine and crushed vertebrae. He'd probably never walk, and certainly wouldn't ride, again. There wasn't much anyone could do for James. He was gone before the ambulance arrived. Even though the race was suspended before an official checkered flag, Steve had 'won'. When the initial frontrunners had each stopped for fuel or oil or repairs and Steve had continued on, he'd maintained his laps while others fell behind. It was only hours later he learned that the flags he thought he'd seen from the officials, and the gesturing from James and Leo, were signals that he had finished in first place and could leave the track. Six laps before the accident – two miles – he didn't need to ride. He shouldn't have been on the track. He wouldn't have killed his best friend.

Blaming him for James' death, Uncle and Aunt wanted nothing to do with Steve and had prohibited Keri from any contact, making it clear that he was no longer, and would never again be, considered a part of their family. Keri, herself, was cloaked in grief, too distraught and angry to blame anyone but God and feeling guilty that her blame was focused on some unseen deity rather than the flesh and blood young man that everyone from track officials to the newspapers agreed, was more driven by ambition and set on winning a race than he was in thinking of his friend. Some even insinuated Steve had set up James, and any other riders in his way, for accident, to 'clear the path' for his success next race season. No one wanted to know about the dangerous track conditions or inexperienced riders who shouldn’t have been allowed on the boards or that Steve would have rather seen himself killed, than James. The public was satisfied in knowing that James was dead and Fawcett an invalid while Steve had walked away; and that in itself makes him guilty. Steve didn't need to defend himself. From the beginning, looking deep into his motives and wishes and desires and soul; he knew the others were right and the fault was his.

“And so, we commend the body of James Tiernan back to the soil from whence it came. May God have mercy upon his soul.”

As the crowd drifts past – with most of the Tiernan family in Ireland, the attendees are mainly fellow racers, track and F.A.M. representatives, and unexpectedly two soldiers in full dress uniform – Steve cautiously makes his way toward the burial site, wanting to pay respects to his friend but hesitant that anyone call attention to his presence. Cresting a small hill, only a few yards from the site, Steve sees only Uncle, Aunt and Keri at graveside; they had remained until the gravediggers began shoveling soil onto the casket and only then did they slowly depart. As Steve approaches, dazed by the past few days and uncertain of the future, Keri, now only steps ahead, hesitates as if to turn back. Her head curves to the left; Steve can see her profile and imagines her passionate, golden eyes. She pauses; wavers; then returns forward and continues on her way, leaving Steve with nothing but his own regrets.

 

* * *

 

“.....Fellow Judges, you have seen the shadows of a man not driven by ego but blinded through negligence. Within his determination to prove himself a faithful friend and worthy man; to demonstrate his will against his father and those he perceived as lessening his path; he failed to recognize what forms a being is not his resolve, but his clarity. Despite opportunities to step beyond all he believed he knew, to achieve that which is greater, he failed to look beyond his own boundaries. Presented with moments of vision he nonetheless chose to confine himself only within what he believed he could control.”

“Judge Aeacus considered for a moment, his hand resting on his chin. “Judge Minos, I see the remorse in his actions. But is he different than any other man, who as a whole stubbornly set themselves firmly upon quicksand and prefer to be swallowed than abandon their position? Would;  _ could  _ he have acted otherwise? Is he fated to be as selfish as all men.....”

“And  _ that  _ is why all men, with few exception, are sentenced to the Asphodel Meadows!” Interjected Judge Rhadamanthys.

“...or does  _ this man  _ possess the ability to look beyond his pettiness and limitations to see a greater truth, a higher purpose? In looking into his actions, I admit, I do not yet see why he has been selected by the Olympians and delivered to us for judgment.”

“I understand your hesitation, brothers. In this mans life I have found another opportunity he has been granted. Let us see if the actions he has chosen are predictable or unforeseen....”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

14 

Inquiries into the Brighton Speedway incident found there were too many factors to determine responsibility to any one, or group, of riders. Focusing on the weather - both as a convenient excuse and to lessen any further public objection over track owners or unnecessary risks or the sport itself, the official ruling stated the accident was an 'Act of God.' What 'God' this was Steve wouldn't consider; because it was his actions and not those of any unseen being that caused James' death. And no hearing or board or assembly could judge otherwise, because none could judge the weight of his anguish. For the first two weeks, he'd questioned himself: “What if I'd done 'this' differently, or hadn't taken 'that' chance? If I had only paid more attention to the track or the riders around me or... if I hadn't been so set on proving I could keep up with James, ride as good or better than he can, and paid attention to the flags or even counted the damn laps!”

But no matter how long or closely he'd played and re-played those seconds in his head, there was nothing he could change.

Nightmares invaded his sleep; images of James' body, bloodied and lifeless; visions of Steve reaching out to grasp his friend from the path of oncoming bikes, but no matter how desperately he reached out something persisted in pulling him further and further away; horrors where he had not only caused James' death; but had actually killed him with his own hands. In time Steve had taken to staying up at night until exhaustion overtook him and he drifted off for a few minutes, or possibly an hour or so, until the torments returned.

Starting the third week, he'd tried to contact Keri but letters went unanswered, flowers were refused and returned and even telegrams received no reply. Over the first ten or so days, Uncle or Aunt or their maid would hang up the phone the moment they realized Steve was on the line. After less than two weeks, they stopped answering at all. The first time he'd gone to the house he was told no one was at home even though, past the partially-opened door, Steve could see peoples' shadows formed on the walls of the sitting room. The second time – when he'd knocked on the door, no one answered and he'd gone down to the garage to pick up a few tools and other belongings – a patrol car had come by, the officers telling him there'd been a complaint about a trespasser on private property and he'd have to leave immediately or be arrested.

While the F.A.M. hadn't revoked his Competition Card, any passion Steve had for motorcycle racing had been torn away. After the ambulances had sped toward the hospitals and the crowd gone home and the other teams packed up, he'd left his machine – along with the truck and the tent and extra parts and everything else that had been a part of the 'Shamrock Twins' - with Leo, keeping only the uniform sweater he'd forgot he had on.

“Best to take it easy, pal.” Leo had advised. “They'se guys around, ya know, waitin' to take advantage of udder guys that's had a bad rap, there. Kick a man when he's down, get ya to take risks ya wouldn't wanna do if youse was thinkin' straight. I'll keep all your stuff 'till you tell me ya' need 'em.”

But Steve would never again need 'em.

Filled with nervous energy and no outlet, the actions he'd taken since the race – jumping head-on onto trolleys going full speed; picking fights in bars (when he knew he'd never been particularly good with his fists); and even, during a handful of hours over three weeks, taken enough lessons in an airplane that on the seventh flight the pilot handed the controls over to Steve who managed to keep the craft in the air, but immediately crashed when attempting to land, ending both his flying career and the instructor's business - were all explained away as 'stunts' or 'adventures' or 'young men's follies' by onlookers and the cameramen who always seemed to show up even though he wasn't performing for their benefit. Waking up one morning, disoriented from liquor and night terrors; shirt bloody from a fight he'd gotten into and didn't remember; he had begun to consider if his behavior could be a death wish, a way for him to punish himself if no one else would.

Even Maddie who, favoring their father, had always believed 'nothing good' could come of racing and, when she wasn't otherwise occupied regularly lectured Steve on 'unnecessary risks' and 'if anything happens to you who will provide for mother when she's old'; acquired a moderately-sympathetic yet self-righteous attitude when all that Steve wished is that she tell him to go to the devil and be done with it.

Only Steves' mother, singularly and despite her ill health, provided any solace.

“Do you remember when you ran away from home?” she asked one day while resting on the chaise in the back parlor. While the doctors had strongly advised she remain in bed, she so enjoyed looking out into the garden Maddy or Steve or the housekeeper or her maid would help her downstairs whenever she had the strength.

“Ran away?” Steve replied from a nearby chair where he was keeping her company; even as she could once again watch over her son. “ ....you mean when I was just a kid, five or six?”

“Yes, you took the dog – _Goliath_ \- you couldn't pronounce his name...” She took two short, labored breaths. In these past weeks her breathing had become more difficult. “...so you called him 'Go-lighly'.”

“Are you alright, mother? Would you like a drink of water...?”

“I'm fine. If only I could get comfortable....You packed an apple, half a fried chicken and two pieces of blueberry pie that you wrapped in a napkin. Hardly enough for you and the dog, no matter how long a journey you'd planned.”

“Great dog. Bigger than I was. I guess I thought no matter where I was going, he'd protect me.”

“All day your father assured me you'd come home, but when it started to turn dark I just knew you were lost - _breathe-in-exale-out -_ and I insisted we take the Buggy - that little car we'd ordered from Sears – and search until we found you.”

“Which was sitting under a tree in the park just down the street. No more than a couple of blocks over. I remember. Father was furious. Actually, most of the time he was mad at me for some reason or other.”

“No, Steven, you're mistaken. Your father loves you. As much as I do. He just never understood you.”

“He wanted me to be like him. Never supported me in anything he didn't think was _worthy_.”

“Only because he wants the best for you. Can you help me with this pillow, please. I'm so tired...”

“You should rest, mother.”

“Later. You must hear this. Steven, you're running away again. But you don't have a dog or your father or me to protect you.”

“I'm just going through some hard times...”

“And your response is to run away? To look for pity or drown your sorrows or hope that by experiencing injury...” _\- breathe – must - breathe -_ “...that will somehow overshadow a deeper pain? Is that how we taught you? Is that what James would want? Is that what you want others to think of you?”

She tried to rise, but the agony grew beyond what she could bear.

“Oh...OH. I'm sorry, son, it's worsening...”

“Mother, please rest. We can talk about this later.”

“If either of us continue as we are – you with your selfishness, me...as I am...there may not be a later.”

“Mother....”

“All your life I encouraged you to pursue what you wished. In his way, your father sought that you be the best man you could be. We both wanted you to move forward; not in our way, but in yours. To always run _toward_ what you seek, not run _away_ from what you fear. But now, it seems what you fear is yourself. We did not raise you to be a coward. Now please, help me upstairs. I am so tired....”

 

* * *

 

January 1st – what many consider the day holding the most promise and greatest expectation of a New Year yet to be revealed – holds no comfort for those in mourning. Within days of Christmas Caroline Trevor was no longer able to move downstairs. Maddy had decorated her mothers bedroom with a small tree and on Christmas Eve the family gathered to share gifts. The next morning she had begun to decline, fading in and out due to the illness, her weakened condition due to inability to eat, and the frequent morphia injections that kept her from excessive pain.

The morning of the burial - a fine, crisp sunny day that for January would have otherwise been a welcome recess between bouts of winter weather – was, as some commented, 'a good day for a funeral'. Charles Trevor, in London, could not make the transatlantic crossing in time for the services and even if there were a way for him to travel in hours rather than days, no ships were available for passenger service, all having been assigned to carry troops and supplies. His only presence was the blanket of flowers covering his wives casket. Representatives from the New York Consulate were present out of obligation or agreement, but junior bureaucrats only, those recently posted to New York as higher-ranked officials returned to England or were assigned to Washington. None attending actually knew Mrs. Trevor, few having ever met her husband. Many friends of Steve's parents, none of which he'd seen for years, dutifully arrived dressed in black and grey, some accompanied by young men, Steve's age, in khaki uniform, standing by the side of their parents, appearing uncomfortably sympathetic and helpless. His mothers family; those that introduced themselves as such; were unknown to Steve. On grounds never shared with the children, their father refused to associate with 'that side of the family' and while Maddy had visited some of their mother's relatives while attending school, to Steve they were strangers he never knew existed. Out of respect the Tiernan family sent a wreath, but none attended the funeral. Other than Leo who, feeling out of place both geographically and socially remained in the background, Steve was alone.

“So sorry for your loss, lad.”

“Your mother was such a _dear..._ ”

“Chin up. That's what you Trevors do.”

“His Majesties Government lends its deepest sympathies.”

“Your father would have been here if he could. Cursed war.”

“If there's anything we can do for you, let us know. That's what family is for!”

“I don't know what to say, pal. Loosin' your mom and James and your gal...Maybe what ya' need is a change 'a scenery, there.”

' _Canada's New Army.....Needs Men Like You_ '

The poster showed a knight, lance and shield held firmly, on horseback in full charge. Both carefully shaded in white and ivory, the horse had just crested a small hill and this image filled the background so that portions of the horses tail and legs were outside the frame. Drawn slightly smaller but with greater detail, three motorcyclists, each inked in kahki and brown and outfitted in complete British battle kit accompanied the horseman in his advance. The foremost rider had just reached the top of the hill and mirroring the rearing horse, front hooves anxiously pawing at the air, the front wheel of his machine rose as if the machine itself was eager for battle. Along the top of the broadside in bold, black, capital letters was printed 'CANADA'S NEW ARMY'; and at the bottom, beneath the wheels of the ascending motorcyclist and superimposed into the hillside proclaimed: ' _NEEDS_ ' - in double-sized type and italicized for emphasis – 'MEN LIKE YOU'.

Positioned on a wall just outside the cemetery gates - as if advertising for future tenants - the advertisement all but called out Steve's name. Here were men with resolve and passion; men working toward a purpose larger than themselves; men not alone. This is what James would have done. Perhaps through atonement or guilt or responsibility Steve could realise what James had sought. And if that led to wound or disfigure or death; maybe that would balance the scale.

By recognized statute, from the mid 1800's it had been illegal for any sovereign nation to solicit or contract for soldiers within the borders of another sovereign nation. Yet the British Empire, through Canada, had since 1915 been actively recruiting for their army within the United States. Officially directed only to British subjects living or working in the US; the criteria soon broadened to include immigrants with a family or family members still residing within the British Empire; those who maintained family, social, or cultural connections with England or any of its Dominions, colonies or protectorates; and ultimately any American who felt a 'close connection' with the British Isles. Realistically, any healthy male between the ages of 18 and 44 who was born within the Empire; or could convince the recruiting officers he was in good health, fell within the required age range and could claim a British city or village as his home town, Canadian recruiters accepted with few questions asked.

There wasn't much to the recruiting station; just two Canadian Army Officers standing behind a tall counter inside a largely barren room in an unremarkable building crowded between a drugstore and a tailor shop. After giving the applicants a good look-over, so as not to waste his time nor the time of any others waiting, one of the officers handed Steve a simple two-page document titled:

'ATTESTATION PAPER _Canadian Over-seas Expeditionary Force_ '.

The CEF required the applicant to affirm 'In what Town, Township or Parish and in what Country were you born; what is your next of kin; and under what address to you maintain your home?'. Without pause Steve indicated he was born in London, England and listed his Father's London address as his own. He assumed no one would make the effort to discover the address is actually that of his fathers St. James Gentleman's Club, and, if a letter or telegram had to be forwarded to his family to tell them their son had been killed, the Club was a good a place as any. If anyone asked about his accent, he'd just say his family moved to Canada when he was a kid. _Age?_ ; _Do you believe yourself to be medically fit?_ ; _Ever belong to a military force or militia?_ ; _Are you now or have you ever been married?_....yeah, all those questions were quickly answered. ' _Trade or Calling?_ ':....Steve realized he had no trade. As for 'calling'.... well, that was the question, wasn't it. Realizing the recruitment officers were starting to take notice of his hesitation with such simple questions – a sure sign of a man trying to hide something – he quickly listed: Soldier – motorcyclist – aviator. A soldier, he reasoned, is what he was now; a motorcyclist; well, that's why he joined and he certainly didn't want to end up in the infantry; as for aviator...that, he reasoned, couldn't hurt. Besides, he did have aviation experience. The form held no place to mention _successful_ trades or callings and besides, making the facts fit his purpose made it all the easier to ascribe to the required oath of _'True allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth, His Heirs and Successors"._

Following a cursory medical exam which confirmed little more than acceptable hearing and eyesight; a healthy heart and lungs; enough natural teeth that would allow a man to eat; and a 'well-formed' physique; with a stamp, imprint and signature – or actually multiple stamps, imprints and signatures as per army regulations, all paperwork must be completed in triplicate - Steve was now a member of His Majesties Corps of Royal Engineers Signals, Motorcycle Despatch. For such a decisive event in a mans life, there was curiously little sense of celebration.

 

* * *

 

Departing from Halifax and sailing into St Nazaire, France was noteworthy only for the crowded conditions onboard the ship and the fact that Steve had been granted a promotion to Corporal even before he had been issued a uniform, granting him rights and responsibilities he'd rather do without. By some long-standing British Army regulation with origins now forgotten, all dispatches, messages, reports, bulletins and every other form of official paperwork can only be passed from one officer to another. Therefore, all despatch riders were automatically granted the non-commissioned officer rank of corporal, itself meaning little in the military hierarchy but more importantly, fulfilling the regulation. This put Steve in the position of outranking most of the recruits eagerly crossing the Atlantic. Many older; some younger; nearly all, just as Steve, volunteers not knowing or understanding Army methods or expectations or even at what time and where to eat. And all looking for a more-experienced, higher ranking soldier to show them the way.

“Excuse me, Corporal – do you know what time we'll be reaching France?”

“I'm sorry Sir, are we to wear our hats only when on deck, or everytime we leave our quarters?”

“I wasn't sure where to report, so I'm reporting to you.”

“How long you been in, friend? Bet you got some good stories to tell.”

While, of course, Steve knew nothing more than any of them. During the first few days he tried his best to answer men's questions and help them understand the practices and policies even as he was beginning to grasp them himself. By day four, badgered and irritable, he began making up answers and sending men on pointless assignments just to be rid of them. Two days out from France, he no longer addressed the men in any way other than responding to every question with some variation of: “My Lord, man, you’re a soldier now! There's no one here to hold your hand. Figure it out for yourself!” Surprisingly, this attitude seemed to result in the least amount of aggravation and returned the highest measure of respect.

While Steve had been assigned a Company and Brigade - __4th Divisional Signals Company, sections 1 &2, 11th Brigade, The Royal Engineers – _ _ _as a replacement the bulk of this Company was already overseas, with none to report to or accompany him onboard. Unassisted and largely removed from the ranks of other recruits – he'd only received a few days training before being ordered to ship - the Army either believed he had the ability to find his own way, or he'd been forgotten. This led to whispered questions concerning his status and duty; from rumors he was a spy on an intelligence mission to suggestions he was just some guy who got on the wrong boat. Steve's_ efforts to remain as nondescript as possible were not helped when, somewhere off the southern coast of Ireland, a British transfer launch intercepted the ship and a small packet was passed onboard. Steve was in the main mess, among the hundreds of other men picking at their lunch and finishing a plate of eggs, potatoes and what appeared to be some type of meat in gravy, when the ships First Officer approached and handed him a leather portfolio secured with a lead seal.

“Trevor. From London. Please acknowledge receipt.”

“Right. I, uh, have received this.”

“Very good. As you were.”

Understandably this exchange, both in itself and as there was little other excitement to be found onboard, instantly caught the interest of those who overheard the conversation (and could later claim they had actually _witnessed_ the packet being handed from one man to the other), while an expectant silence from those in Steve's immediate vicinity radiated outward until the attention of all in the room was focused on him.

With the uneasily muttered offhand comment “Hey guys, just a letter from home” he retreated to a more secluded location to open this unknown and unexpected package. He didn't realize how accurate his comment had been.

DIPLOMATIC MAIL

TO BE OPENED BY DESIGNATED RECIPIANT ONLY

 

Inside was an envelope on fine stationary hand addressed to _Steven Trevor, Royal Signals_ ; and a small box tied with a length of brown string.

 

_Steven;_

_My deepest sympathies in our recent loss. I greatly regret my inability to attend your mother's funeral, nor to have been available in her last weeks. Things in the world being what they are....And thus this packet. Not exactly above board, but in times of trial each of us must take whatever action best suits that accord._

_Your sister cabled to inform me of your decision. I must congratulate you on a wise resolution. You will be relieved, I am certain, that I will not again be relating to you the notable military history of the Trevor name; I have recited that chronology to you many times, in the hope it would strike a hidden chord deep within your being, and if that lesson has not been taken to heart by now it never shall. Beyond any tales of daring-do, however, I hope from our talks you did not take away images of glory, but the understanding of what sets a man apart is serving others, and not the honors or achievements that may come from his service._

_But returning to chronology, please accept the enclosed in my most sincere hope that as you wear it, it will keep you grounded to the past even as it accompanies you into the future. It served me well through many a hellish ordeal and brought me back, time and again, to my cherished wife and family. My wish is that it will guide you in your journeys and when our current trials have ended and our burdens are lifted, it will become a measure not of what was; but of what can be._

_At this point, I have no wisdom to impart or guidance to provide. There is nothing more I can contribute than what I attempted to impart in your childhood. If those lessons found their home, only you can determine. But know that in every manner possible I will always be available for you and I am forever grateful you are my son._

_May our Lord bless your every endeavor,_

_Your Father,_

_Charles A.Trevor, Major RMA ret., Envoy to His Majesties Government, London_

 

Inside the box, carefully wrapped in tissue, was his fathers watch. The pocket-chain had been removed and the case fitted into a leather strap, for use as one of the new, practical 'trench-watches'.

“Wow” said Steve to himself. “I didn't see that coming.”


	15. Chapter 15

_ Official Transcript of conversation between: _

Dupont, Adrien, Devastated Regions Service, Antwerp Province; and

Gillard, Mathieu, farmer residing approximately 18 km west- southwest of Antwerp.

Date Twenty-eighth of December, 1918. Report conducted in the living area of MM. Gillard's home.

 

Dupont: MM. Gillard, please tell me the condition of your home and land once you returned.

Gillard: Condition! There was nothing. No, that is not fair; I have neighbors with less. My land is little more than mud and holes. There are no trees remaining until you move into the forest, and even then the taller trees have lost their tops and many of their branches. It is like a giant came and ripped up the earth, tore off the trees to make them all short. One side of my house, and much of the roof, was gone – destroyed by shells, I think. Much of my barn remains. At first I thought it was an illusion, wishful thinking, but it looks like the Germans were using it as a barracks so the structure was saved but they tore apart the stalls to make beds. When they left they destroyed as much as possible. Of course there is no more hay, I don't know what will happen to the animals over the winter.

D: We are aware of the problem and supplies are arriving from England and America. The King has pledged the Belgian government will do all possible to provide what we can. Were you able to retrieve any of your livestock?

G: What the Germans hadn't killed!? The butchers....One cow was hiding in the forest, and I think she was happy to have someone find her. This war's been hard on the animals, too, you know. There are a few chickens scattered around – mostly those that were too skinny or fast to be caught – and when I threw out some spoiled food from the cellar, pigs came out of nowhere so I think I have more of them, than I had before. And also, I found something...

D: Yes, we need to make note of everything.

G: A horse. Just standing there in the fields – or what remains of the fields. I looked her over good, and there was no markings or badges or identification on her at all, or on the saddle or leather. Nothing, I checked twice to be certain so I'm not trying to get away with anything! All she had on her was a saddle and harness, a rolled up blanket but no bags or anything that would identify her or where she came from. There was this round piece of metal hanging from the saddle...

D: A helmet, or piece of munitions?

G: No, much bigger than a helmet, 80 or 90 cm. Not for a gun; perfectly round and flat, not long. Bowed in the middle, like a shallow plate. With a pretty design colored in gold, copper and brass, almost like the sun. Leather straps on the back. Like what the old knights carried – a shield. And it's tough! I couldn't bend it or dent it with a hammer and even had the horse step on it a few times, didn't leave a scratch.

D: That's interesting. Maybe a banner or insignia from some army unit, but I don't know of any that carried 'shields'. And please monsieur, you shouldn't hit anything you find in the fields with a hammer; it can be an explosive. Can I see this round shield?

G: It's in front of you. I don't have much use for a pretty decoration, so I cut off the straps and used them to repair the hinges on the gate. Keeps the pigs in. Then I was able to salvage enough of the stove to get it working, so I turned the metal plate back-to-front, hung it on the wall behind the stove and it reflects heat back into the room. Makes the most of what little wood I can find. I'm lucky that I at least have a stove, even though there's not much to put in it.

D: Yes, it's nice and warm. You've done a good job. And the horse, is she still here?

G: She's a good horse. And a fine black color, as deep as coal. Much too fine to use in the fields, but she's all I have and she and I'll have to do some work in the Spring. Won't work her too hard, though, she's too fine, like a gentlemen's horse. You're not here to take her away from me, are you? I checked for anything telling me who she belongs to, and there was nothing! Here's the blanket that she was carrying, see, it's just a plain brown blanket, there's no name or emblem. Come, look at the saddle...

D: No one will take away anything that is yours. There's been enough sacrifice made already. I'm only here to gain an understanding of how our citizens are recovering, and to provide any help the Kings Government can supply.

G: God Bless Him.

D: As long as no one comes forward with proof that they own the horse or anything the animal was carrying; and they file a formal investigation; nothing will be questioned. There are too many challenges ahead that one horse and some scrap metal will be of much concern. I think you're safe saying that horse and all her gear is now yours.

G: Thank you sir! Thank you greatly!

End of transcript.

 

Prior to departing, Dupont provided MM. Gillard with verbal and printed information on his rights; warnings concerning unexploded war material, deserters and other individuals attempting to take advantage of citizens; a listing of services that are being established to assist survivors; and information on his local government, law enforcement, church and military offices including the processes necessary to bring subjects before the Restoration Courts.

Report filed Seventeenth of January, 1919 by Adrian Dupont

 

* * *

**15**

The ride to the Palace was awkwardly quiet. Other than the few questions Menalippe directed toward Diana: “Has Ares been defeated?”; “Did you return alone?”; “Is there any further danger to Themyscira” - each inquiry formed in such a way which encouraged only the shortest of answer - the sole sounds that accompanied the four were footsteps of their horses. As Diana hadn't yet thought through just what, or how, to tell her mother and the Amazonian Senate of her true reason for returning; she was nonetheless puzzled and uncomfortable by the reception she had so far received. While she hadn't expected to be received as a returning hero; in truth she hadn't expected to be received _at all_ ; or at least not until she had formed a plan she could defend to those who might prevent her from her mission. Her attempt to arrive in secret is exactly why she docked her small boat at the little-used bay, as silently as possible, and at a time when there would be slight chance of discovery. What she hadn't expected was to be immediately met by her Aunt; who was now regarding Diana not as a welcomed family member, nor even as an Amazon; but rather as the uninvited. Was Menalippe for some reason upset that Diana had returned? Were those, who weeks ago argued the Daughter of Themyscira should not be allowed or encouraged to forsake her homeland for the world of man, uncompromising in their objections even in her absence? Did the Amazons blame Diana for the death of Antiope – and the dozens of others killed on the beach? Perhaps, she thought, this is what mother meant when she said 'I may never return'....

After only a few miles in distance but what drew into an eternity of silence, the group arrived at the palace entry, guarded, as always, by a warrior at each side of the gate – and countless others cloaked, but watchful, among the surrounding landscape.

“Stop. No one may enter the Palace of the Queen.”

“It is I, Menalippe. I have brought Diana.”

A visible gasp arose between the guards.

“Diana! Thank the gods. The Queen will be overjoyed”.

“Venelia, where can we find my sister?”

“The Queen will be in her chambers. Or possibly in those of Diana. She has not been herself....”

“That is why Diana must see her immediately. Tell no one Diana has returned; and allow no others into the palace until I, or Hippolyta, direct you otherwise.”

“Yes, Menalippe. We will stand by our duty.”

Alighting from her saddle, Diana watched as the two accompanying guards, still mounted, led the two riderless horses into the darkness. “If only I could go with them”, Diana thought. “The refuge of the dark forest is preferable to the shadowed reaction I've thus far received. Will my mother, also, treat me in this manner? Am I no longer welcomed....in my own home?”

“Come, Diana” urged her Aunt. “Your mother is waiting.”

Climbing the stairs Diana knew so well – it was just here, on the sixth step from the bottom, where as a young girl she had slipped while rushing to something of childhood importance now long forgotten, that she had fell and twisted her ankle; choosing to hide the injury from her mother, binding her sandals as tightly as possible and rejecting the pain until the foot healed itself. Passing now the small landing where she would huddle for hours, watching the Queen; her attendants; and the warriors below and wishing for the day she also would be allowed to grow into their world of trust and duty. As they ascend toward the personal chambers, beyond the rooms dedicated to discussion; planning; study; and the throne room itself; Menalippe halts and turns from her lead.

“Diana, remove that strange covering...where is your cloak?”

“It was misplaced.”

“I see. And set down the pouch you carry, along with your sword and shield, in the passageway. Your mother has not been herself; her first sight of you should not be of a warrior, to remind her of what she has lost and has feared to lose – but of her child. ..... _Where_ is the sword and shield?”

“I no longer have them, my Aunt. The 'GodKiller' was destroyed; the shield lost in the War.”

Diana would not have expected to once again be in the position she so often found herself as a girl. But in the peculiarity of the situation: A young woman who departed as a youth, grown to a hero in the world of man and if Ares is correct, a god herself, returns to the home of her childhood, again among those to whom she will forever be seen as a child; ascending the staircase upon which she used to play, her Aunt standing forward and elevated above, looking down upon her niece - Diana once again feels the bite of reprimand from an adult to a child.

“You did not return with either? Or your cloak? Did you not think they were worthy of your attention?”

“Ares destroyed the sword. I could not avoid its destruction. The shield....was not necessary for me to complete my duty.”

“That is an irresponsible rationalization. The GodKiller was only a symbol, a placeholder named not for what it was, but for who would yield the power it represented....the loss of it physically is relevant only in that it allowed you to recognize your own strengths. The loss of Apollo'sshield, however, is another matter and a great sacrifice. At least you have returned with the Armour of Justice. Do you still have the Lasso of Hestia?”

“It is by my side.”

“These things were not yours to take, you understand. Only because your mother believed you needed them to fulfill your duty; and because of her belief and love for you; did we allow you to depart with them on your journey....”

“After I talk with my mother I will return them to the Treasury.”

“...and the Queen and I decided that if you ever return, they are now yours as no other Amazon, not even the Queen herself who wore that armour and carried that shield long ago, is as worthy as you to bear that right – and that responsibility. She will be disappointed, by some degree, you have already mislead that responsibility.”

“ _It is good_ ”, thought Diana, _“I have not expected to be received as a hero. I have not even returned as an adult._ ”

Coming upon Hippolyta's private chambers, Diana hesitates before entering; but the rooms are silent and dark.

“Menalippe, why is everything so strange? The rooms – not even a single light shines? Where is my mot...”

“Come, Diana. To your room. Since you have gone, the Queen only finds solace at your bedside.”

Entering the doorway before her, at the foot of Diana's childhood bed kneels Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons; shoulders rounded and head bowed. The bed coverings are damp from her tears.

“....Mother....”

“Do the gods taunt me by the illusion of my daughters voice?”

“No, I am here.”

The Queen slowly looks over her shoulder in languid disbelief. She could not hope. Upon recognizing her daughter, Hippolyta springs forward; the first few feet stumbling on her hands and knees until she gains her footing; reaching Diana in a clasped and fierce embrace that can only be between a mother and her child.

“Thank the gods! I feared you would never return....I had lost hope....”

“I have fulfilled the sacred duty of the Amazons. Only by the will of the gods have I returned home.”

Hippolyta steps back to look into her child's eyes, yet holds tightly to her arms.

“You have killed Ares? He is no longer a threat to us, or to mankind?”

“Yes, Ares is dead. Before he died he told me things....I don't know are true. Confusing things that are not in the stories...”

“Diana, the gods often seek to test us. They will entice us toward faithlessness, and temp us to abandon our duty; our honor; even ourselves. Ares believed he was above all; by being true to the lessons Antiope and Menalippe and I, and all Amazons have taught you; and by searching within yourself; you have not only defeated Ares who threatened us all, but grown into a woman. I scarcely recognize the round-faced girl that devoted more energy to evading her tutors than she did studying her lessons. I am proud of you, my daughter. But you have more to learn, Diana; you _are_ more than you can imagine.”

“Mother, there is more I must do _now_.”

“You are home. We give thanks to the gods. All else will come in time. Menalippe, alert the guards to gather the council leaders, as well as our commanders. They must be made aware of the defeat of Ares. We will meet in the Western pteroma. Notify the Senators of an assembly as the sun rises.  Diana has returned!”

“No, mother, I cannot wait. I must act now.”

“What do you speak of? Is there another danger from the world of man that threatens Themyscira?”

“No, we are safe. But others...Steve Trevor, whom I rescued from the sea and journeyed with...”

“That _man_?”

“”....he made a great sacrifice; the greatest sacrifice. He allowed himself to be killed so that hundreds could live.”

“Diana, all men must die. If his death was in the benefit of others, then he should be honored; but his mortality is not ours to mourn.”

Diana takes a step back; wipes the tears of happiness and sorrow from her eyes; and gazes heavenward not in supplication or yearning; but in justification.

“Steve would not have not died if not for me. I acted upon assumptions and accepted mistakes. I failed to see....”

Hippolyta steps toward Diana and brushes the hair from her eyes, cupping her face into her hands; looking for what remains of the girl beyond the woman.

“That is because you have much to learn.”

Wiping her own eyes and quickly straightening her clothing, the Queen takes her daughters arm in her own, the two of them exiting Diana's childhood room and beginning their measured; regal; descent toward the commanders and council leaders beginning to arrive.

“But by all that, Steve died. And many others also, dead because I believed I _knew_ , rather than question...”

“Diana, it is not the duty of the Amazons to save mankind _from itself_. We can show them the way; but they must make the choice.”

“Steve would not have had to make that choice if I had not believed in...my own ignorance.”

Hippolyta stopped midway on the stairs, turned toward Diana and looked into eyes which she had known as an infant, but now steeled with an impenetrability she would have never assumed.

“What are you saying, daughter?”

“It is my duty to enter the Underworld and rescue Steve from Hades. Return him from a death he should have never suffered.”

“NO, Diana, you _will not_ go. I forbid it. I will lock you in the palace if I must. When you left us before, you broke my heart; when you returned again I found hope. I've already lost my dear sister. I thought I lost you. I will not allow another one precious to me to again be taken.”

“Mother, I can do it. I have fought battles in the Great War of man. I have traveled from London to Themyscira; across seas, through storms; I can. Mother, I slayed Ares. I can do it.”

“No. Traveling in the world of man is not the same as journeying into Hades. Challenging the Master of the Underworld is not the equal of fulfilling your duty in defeating the God of War, a victory fated by the Olympians. You are deceiving yourself. You will remain here.”

Silence hovered above the two as they reached the lower floor and entered the sheltered porch which ringed the palace; the western portion, golden from the morning sun yet shaded from its intensity, forming an intimate meeting space for the Queen, her family, trusted advisers, and military commanders. Hippolyta took a seat at a slightly elevated dais, Diana sitting at her left side, immediately followed by Menalippe taking a seat on the right; all others found surrounding benches, terraces, or stood among the rounded, sweeping frame of the gallery.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**16**

“Warriors and members of the Councils of Themyscira: My daughter has returned!”

Acclaim, cheers and prayers of thanks ring out among all assembled.

“Diana has fulfilled the sacred Duty of the Amazons and defeated the God of War. Themyscira is safe. Men will no longer bring their wars to our land. Once again we are united as one. Those that have fallen we regard in honor and respect. By their loss we will learn to cherish all the more the blessings granted by the gods.”

“Mother, I cannot abandon my mission.”

“What mission is this?” Toward the rear of the arcade stands a woman clothed in golden-trimmed cape and stole second only to that of the Queen.

“It is nothing, General. Diana believes she owes a debt to a man who chose his own actions. She has returned thinking she is responsible for the life of a single mortal. But we have discussed the matter and it is resolved.”

“No, mother it is not resolved.”

Hippolyta glances at her daughter, well-worn creases formed between the intense focus of her eyes.

“ _Yes_ , Diana, the subject is closed. I _will not_ allow it.”

“My pardon”, voiced General Aella. “If the concerns of Diana effect the security of Themyscira, it is within my duty; and the right of all present; to be made aware of this matter so we may discuss it among ourselves. We have no right to interfere between affairs of you and your daughter; but it is the duty of all Amazons to determine for the benefit of the whole.”

Hippolyta studies the room – at those looking toward her for guidance; for compassion; for understanding. At those who trust in her to bear the burdens of all, because.... _she does_. The Queen sighs.

“Very well. Diana has slayed Ares and fulfilled the mission of the Amazons. In so doing, she tells me; she _believes_ ; errors and misunderstandings caused her ally, the man Steve Trevor, to die for no reason. Diana believes her actions led to his death. She now wishes to enter the Underworld and remove this man from a death from which she thinks he should be spared.”

 The room fills with questioned mutterings and veiled implications.

“Silence, silence, all. Diana, is this correct? Have I overlooked anything?”

“No, mother, you have described our conversation clearly. However you did not state that I offer to undertake this journey alone; it is my responsibility and my duty. You did not relate that only due to my failure do now others suffer. That I killed Ares not through resolve and province, but only by reliance upon my training and despite the blindness of my ignorance. That I did not determine my direction, but allowed events to govern my actions.”

“Diana!” Menalippe stood. “You will _not_ address our Queen in that manner! You will not speak that way to your mother!”

“But it is true, my Aunt. It is only I who is responsible; and only I that must undertake this journey.”

From the surrounding crowd voices clamor: “Diana cannot be allowed!”; “She has recognized her duty, she must go!”; “We must vote! This effects us all!”; “This is not a matter for us but between the Queen and Diana!”

“Please, we will not resolve anything by these outbursts”, declares Hippolyta. “We all agree Diana has returned to us a brave and strong woman. But she still has much to learn. Any lack of judgment she believes led to unintended consequences are only due to her lack of experience and wisdom. She cannot be expected; nor can she expect; to be granted the right of unquestioned actions when she has only now begun to recognize her potential.”

“What if I didn't go alone? If you were to order a company; even a troop of Amazons to accompany me....”

“Accompany you? So I risk loosing not only my daughter, but our best warriors, leaving Themyscira undefended? No, we have suffered too much, lost too many, and already are weakened. It is out of our hands, Diana. The fate of your Steve is now in the influence of the gods.” A knowing but wry smile forms on Hippolyta's lips. “And who would I command to undertake this journey? Who would I order to their deaths? Who among us would _volunteer_?”

“I do.” Hippolyta whirls to her right, startled and saddened by the voice of her sister.

“Menalippe?!”

“As do I”, responds a voice at the foot of the dais.

“So now I am asked to risk not only my daughter; but my youngest sister _and_ the Captain of my Guard? This is insanity. Diana, when in the world of men did you loose your senses?”

“If I may” utters a soft but assured voice.

“Yes, Timandra. Do you represent the Senate in this matter?”

“I am the selected envoy during this interval. I do not offer resolutions from the assembly; however I do speak with their assurance. Diana has made decisions that not all of us support. She is a child; our only child; among adults and she does not understand, she does not even have the memories, of our captivity and our struggles; of the horrors we endured and by the rebellion we, through the courage and leadership of Hippolyta and Antiope, gained our freedom....”

“I have heard the stories.” Diana whispers under her breath.

“...yet she is now embarking on her own journeys, confronting her own challenges and determining her own direction. If she falters; chooses unwisely; stumbles only to regain her footing; is it our purpose to keep her from falling; or to encourage her to again rise? Will we provide her a greater service by cloistering her from harm; from experience; from knowledge; or by furnishing the guidance and support that will enable her to grow to her full prospect? I cannot advocate her entry into the Underworld simply in an attempt to right a supposed wrong that will serve more to console her pain as it will to redeem a mortal. But I do support her journey toward forethought and resolution. It is only through sacrifice we gain wisdom; and it is often through battle with our greatest failures do we gain the highest understanding. Therefore, I, in the voice of the Senate, recognize that Diana has the right to undertake the path she sees as hers; and we bear the responsibility of supporting her in that decision.”

“My Queen; my sister; we all feel the loss of Antiope. You know she was my guide and my teacher. I was at her side always...but when I was most needed. I did not have the opportunity to thank her, to comfort her, to say goodbye. If Diana is willing to enter Hades for the sake of a man, how can I not attempt to pass through the gates of the Underworld in behalf of our greatest General, and our beloved sister?”

“Then you suggest Antiope can return from the dead? That she can arise to be rescued, just as Diana believes she can do for this man?”

“No, not return but recognize her ultimate victory. Antiope trained ceaselessly for the battles she feared we would all, again, one day face. While she met an heroes death, and will be granted for all eternity the Fields of Elysium, she did not die in honorable combat, facing her opponent as equals but rather by the treachery of the weakness of men who do not possess the courage to gaze into the eyes of those they challenge. By entering the Underworld and seeking our sister, I will carry her the message that she is forever remembered and honored. That Diana fulfilled the task for which Antiope had prepared. That she did not die in vain.”

“And your argument, Egeria?”

“I am the Captain of the Guard, selected by you, my Queen, to protect the royal family cherished; respected; beloved of all Amazons. It is my duty to watch over Princess Diana. Diana has fulfilled her sacred duty; surely, my Queen, you will not forbid me fulfilling mine?”

Seated til now, Diana stood in haste and resolve.

“I do not expect your protection. I will not accept any harm that may come to you because you feel you must accompany me. Steve also believed his place was by my side – and now he is gone. Another desired to remain with me - one as brave and strong as any Amazon – and I was forced to sever myself from her rather than bear the loss of another due to purpose which is mine, alone. No. I will not endure the pain knowing others suffer because of me.”

“Diana”, Egeria steps forward and places her hand on Dianas shoulder; “it is more than my duty. It is my decision. It is my _honor_.”

“My niece, the lives of each of us impact upon the other. With love comes pain; we cannot determine what pains we bear any more than we can choose who we love. Just as I have been burdened and distracted by my grief for Antiope, so I see the heartache in you. But love gives much more than it takes away. We each stand for one another; for those we love; not because it is our duty or our expectation or even, as warriors, our greatest strength. We stand; we _love_ ; because it is our highest choice.”

Although it is Menalippe speaking; the voice Diana hears is that of Abigail: “ _If someone loves you, they will give up everything they have. That's what love does, Diana.”_

“Very well”, Hippolya proclaims. “It seems the desires of I, your Queen, have been overruled. There are no others, I trust, who wish to _volunteer_?” The gathering remains silent. “Very well. Menalippe, make what preparations are necessary for the journey. I trust in your choices that you will return and bring my daughter back safely. Secure whatever supplies you need and inform me of every plan you consider. You are High Priestess; but if I am to provide any advice, it is to seek out the wisdom and guidance of Athena. Egeria, together with General Aella, select a company of our most skilled and trusted warriors to accompany the journey to Hells Gate and be certain the gate is secured once....” The queens head drops, her breath falters; only to quickly regain her composure “...once the three have entered. Then General, you and the army will remain until _all_ three return. There may be other... _things_ attempting to flee through the portal and it is your duty to prevent any escape. All resources of Themyscira are made available for the successful completion of this journey. There will be no further losses.”

As the Queen rises to depart; and the assembled representatives and advisers file away in groups of three and four; Diana approaches her mother.

“Thank you, mother, for understanding....”

“You have achieved what you wanted, Diana. I pray I will not regret my decision. You have much to do. I am needed elsewhere.”

And Diana was left, alone within the familiar walls that should have brought the happiness of childhood memories; but in which she found herself isolated and misplaced.

 

* * *

 

Long ago, when time had failed - for Hercules, in his conceit and vanity beset from every soul his idolization and glory; when Athena and other sympathetic gods stood by the side of Hippoloyta and Antiope and all women who fought for and achieved freedom; when the Amazons had only just expelled the horrors Hercules and his followers had thrust upon Themyscira; in an ultimate gift, Zeus shielded and obscured the Amazons and their home from any future violation. However, at that time Hades, the ruler of the Underworld who did not desire any being in his kingdom to escape; and Zeus, the ruler of Olympus and all it overlooks, who sought to prevent unknown darkness from entering his world; charged the Amazons with the duty of securing and forever guarding Hells Gate, the portal Hercules had pierced between this world and the next in a profane attempt to show that he, also, should be considered a god worthy of worship by all beings mortal and not. While, the stories tell, throughout worlds known and unknown there are many connecting doorways; all, with the exception of the Gate on Themyscira, are guarded by the gods themselves. And therefore no being, dead or alive, is permitted to cross without permission of the gods. To enter without approval of Hades; or Thanatos; or Keres; or any of the other gods or spirits who order this realm – an order of eternal desolation - is to cast ones fate into all that is endless; irretrievable; and void. This is the journey which Diana; Menalippe; and Egeria prepared to undertake.

But each prepare in their own way. Menalippe had been entrusted, as High Priestess of Themyscira, to seek from the gods guidance and protection; employ her insight of the Underworld and those that dwell within to prevent any unnecessary clash; and, as one of the few Amazons with the knowledge and understanding of the astronomical markers necessary to locate the portal, safely guide the journey to, and from, the Gate. And, as Hippolyta expressed to her in private, “Put an end to this unwise 'duty' Diana has taken upon herself to complete. If you do; or do not; find this 'Steve' of hers is of no concern to me; you are only to bring back safely my daughter; yourself; and Egeria. Nothing else is of importance.”

Egeria, along with the assistance of General Aella, was commanded to assemble a troop of the most brave and skilled warriors, arm them for whatever unknown they may encounter, and, as she had volunteered, then accompany Diana and Menalippe into the Underworld. Strong and resourceful, expert at bow; sword; spear; hand-to-hand combat and second only to Antiope in her proficiency, stamina, and reflexes, she also possess the understanding and compassion of one who always seeks to focus on others and highlight their concerns over her own. As the day progressed and Hippolyta reexamined the decision she had made that morning; only to realize by allowing Diana to undertake this foolish journey now, equipped and accompanied by the greatest of Themyscira, was the best precaution she could take to keep her daughter from setting out, once again, on her own - perhaps never to return - did Aella remind the Queen that Egeria had, herself, been among the Amazons who originally sealed and secured Hells Gate; in doing so, long ago, nearly sacrificing her life in the protection of another.

Diana. Diana had not been required to undertake any action; directed to fulfill any preparation; nor ordered with any expectation. She had been left on her own. As she walked the well-worn paths and visited her favorite locations, she felt an unfamiliar distance between herself and those she encountered. No one was unkind; or indifferent; or inconsiderate; in fact she sensed an even greater attempt toward courtesy, propriety and respect than she had ever recalled receiving. Yet she had not changed. Whether this disharmony was due to her undesired departure and unexpected return; concerns over the impending journey; or only an illusion, she did not know. It is as if she had asked to be treated differently; and that request was granted. Or if she had entered one door as herself, and emerged a different person. Yet she, certainly, had not changed.

Relying upon no direction other that what she provides herself; and to some extent thankful she only had to explain her missing sword; shield; and cloak to Menalippe and not her mother; Diana determined that not only did she need to obtain the weapons and gear necessary for her journey; but it would be preferable if this was accomplished without her mother's knowledge. Although to obtain any weapon among the Amazons without knowledge of the Queen; or Menalippe; or the Master of the Armoury; was unheard of. But she would find a way.


	17. Chapter 17

**17**

The Armoury of Themyscira is neither fortified nor defended. While it is a repository and arsenal of weapons, just as would usually be considered of any arms warehouse – and all that is precious, irreplaceable or dedicated to the gods is secured in the Palace Tower – at the civic armoury there is little need for security and advantageous that weapons be at hand in a moments notice. The island fears no internal conflict; any threat would arrive from the outermost cliffs and beaches; and as every Amazon, rather baker; or merchant; or inscriber of story; or the Queen herself are warriors trained and continually-vigilant, all who must have immediate access to their weapons. So nothing blocked, and no one barred, Diana from searching through the cache in the expectation of finding a shield no longer used; or a dulled sword to which she could restore an edge. She had settled on a slightly rusted, medium-length sword and a hardly-noticeably-bent shield missing only one leather enarme – two items Artemis, Master of the Armoury would not miss and possibly didn't even know were among the reserve, when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Hold, citizen. Have you permission to obtain a weapon?”

“Artemis! It is Diana. I was just....”

“Ah, Diana. I heard you have returned. Thanks to the gods. Is there something you...seek?

“I am in need of a sword and shield. The Queen has authorized a journey....I will be accompanied by Menalippe...and Egeria....I thought perhaps I could renew these forgotten weapons....”

“I know what you're doing, child. Don't say something you'll need to explain later. Throughout your life you've spoken long before you've thought. And what do you have in exchange for these pieces?”

“I can only offer my honor. I have nothing for exchange...and I have no trade or skills that permit me to produce anything of value.”

From her earliest memories, Diana has known Artemis as an ever-watchful presence, even more than each member of the Royal Guard or any of her tutors. When Diana first wished to learn to ride, it was Artemis who lifted her into the saddle, and who urged her to try again when she had fallen. When Diana had endless questions and understandings only a child can hold, Artemis would not hurry her along but seemed to welcome her company. It was Artemis who, with the understanding of Antiope, provided Diana with her first sword and assisted in keeping her training concealed from the Queen. In Diana's sight, Artemis is her family much the same as is Hippolyta, Antiope and Menalippe.

“I see. That is a challenge, then. This never before stopped you from charging forward toward whatever you desired.”

“Before, no one seemed to expect anything of me other than to be myself. Now, it is as if the person they see – the person they expect – is not _me_ , but what they want me to be. But I am the same as always. What can they want from me, that I do not even recognize?”

“Diana, child, you have grown. All that you were is still within you; but with each experience, every new lesson that takes you beyond the tasks of your youth, you grow into what you will become. Everyone sees that; everyone but you; and for we who know you only as a child, for some it is assuring; for others bewildering; to some magical and for your aunt; and your mother, who recognizes the baby she had formed from clay is now grown into a strong, self-reliant woman – it is unsettling.”

“I do not wish to change....but I do not wish to remain a child. How will I know when I have become all I am?”

“Oh, child”, Artemis easily laughs, “you have _always_ been who you are! We, every one of us, is not only who we believe ourselves to be, but what others see in us. To the Queen and all of Themyscira, I am Master of the Armoury. To Io I am her helper. To Timandra, I am her sister. Who am I to you?”

“You are my friend.”

“So each of us has within ourselves to be seen differently by all. You ask how you will know when you are all you are – each time you look into the eyes of one you know, and to all you meet, they see a different you. So the question is not 'when will I be all I am'; it should be 'how can I be my best for all'.”

“There have been so many in just these past weeks....Steve...Etta....Charlie, Sami, Napi....Abigail....so many. I don't think I was my best for all. I don't even know who I was trying to be. I....Artemis, I don't understand.”

“Of course not. You are still a child. But a child that grows more each day. But this does not help with your weapons. Is this pitiful sword; and a shield that would serve better as a wash basin; the weapons you choose for battle?”

“I have little choice.”

“The shield of Apollo and the GodKiller?”

“Lost.”

“Unfortunate. I think we can do better than these pieces of metal.”

 

* * *

 

Adjacent to the Armoury yet more than a few yards distant – because many claimed they could smell the workshop long before it was in sight – is the Themysciran Foundry, under the continuous toil of Io, the Amazonian chief – and usually, only – blacksmith.

“Io”, Artemis announces over the noise of metal ringing against metal, “set down your hammer. I have brought Diana.”

Io, hair pulled back beyond her dripping brow and with leather apron tightly strapped over her frock and skirt, steps back from the fire which has shaded her face red and nearly every other part of her body ashen.

“Diana! Our thanks to the gods! Has your mother; do all others; know you have returned?”

“Yes, we have spoken...I am preparing for a journey....”

“Another? Have you outgrown your home?”

“Io, Diana is here to obtain weapons. A sword and shield.”

“The GodKiller? The shield of Apollo?”

Diana sighs. “Lost.”

“Lost? Has the Queen been made aware of this?”

“Io, that's not our concern. Diana has come to us for assistance. I told her we can provide weapons unique to her needs....”

“Oh....are you certain? Artemis, are we alone?”

Artemis scans the area in confirmation. Diana looks about in confusion.

“Yes. It is only us.”

“Diana”, continues Io, “this is unknown to Aella; to Egeria; to the Senate; to Menalippe and even to the Queen. I have been tasked by Hephaestus himself, armourer to the gods, to keep this secret from all until she with the highest duty and greatest promise bears the need.”

From behind the forge; beneath a hidden compartment that appeared to be nothing more than an ash-pit, revealed behind three widths of undisturbed brick and shrouded first in a rough burlap sack but uncovered to expose a wrapping of finest silk; Io removes a golden bronzed shield rimmed in the brightest gilt; and a lustrous silver sword, polished in brilliance as the most glistening rocks of a riverbed.

“Diana. The Sword and Shield of Athena.”

Though presented to her, Diana hesitates; the weapons are almost too splendid to touch.

“These are unknown to any mortal but us three. With them comes the greatest potential and the utmost responsibility. They _cannot_ be neglected; ignored; mislaid; or _lost_.”

“That could not be avoided....”

“Excuses. If you accept these weapons; the powers they hold within themselves; as well as your own skills; they magnify and enhance. You must attend to these to a higher standard. They should not be considered only your weapons; they must be cherished as your companions.”

Diana grasps the blued metal handle of the sword and swings it in sweeping arcs; even as she twirls and spins, the weight of the blade appears to vanish to nothingness; the hilt forming to her hand as if both are one. Handing the weapon back to Io, she lifts the shield, testing its form and balance; admiring the artistry that has encircled the disk with sharply-defined inscription yet representing the finest details, down to each feather, of the eagle centered in herald.

“They are...magnificent. But if these are the weapons of Athena, why are they inscribed with the eagle – the sign of Zeus – and not the owl of Athena?”

Io cradles the blade in both hands, her eyes distant. “Athena's sword and shield were not made for her use, but as a gift to Zeus. All his children contributed their unique abilities to be held within the weapons and Hephaestus, blacksmith of Olympus, was tasked with fusing a portion of each gods strengths into the metal itself, so each weapon would be a constant, living reminder to Zeus of his children. And just as the image of a god announces the presence of that god, so does the Eagle of Zeus forged into the sword and shield always evoke the power of Zeus himself. If used justly the sword cannot be defeated and the shield does not protect only within its breadth, but radiates energy beyond its diameter. As his favorite among all Zeus' children, Athena was chosen to direct the creation of the weapons; and the pieces were nearly completed when Ares launched his subversion. Knowing that if the God of War seized the weapons he would be unstoppable, Athena directed Hephaestus to conceal them; believing Ares would not consider the gods had abandoned such powerful tools, he delivered them to me for safekeeping until that time they could be safely recovered. But now, Ares claims he has destroyed the gods....and if you, Diana, have slayed Ares, we did not believe there is anyone remaining to uphold their purpose.”

“The gods are not dead, Io. All of Olympus could not be defeated by one!”

“We can pray so, Artemis, that the gods will arise even as we fear their loss. Just as we hoped that someone of worth would appear and claim what the gods have embodied into these weapons, employing them only to the highest good.” Io places the sword back into Diana's hand - “As now, they are yours, Diana.”

“I am not worthy of these weapons of the gods...surely there are others more deserving.”

“You are the _only_ one, child. We all see the potential within you. You must awaken those powers yourself.”

“There is one more item I think you need” Io states as she walks toward a metal chest. “This”, lifting a small box, “I made when the purpose seemed imminent, but is now long past.” She removes a brown leather bandolier, similar to what Diana already wears, but this with a buckled pouch attached along the left hip; and sewn in-line along the body, three slots each holding a small throwing knife. “To keep you from _misplacing_ anything else. The sword can... _should_ be sheathed behind the pouch or strapped along your shoulder; the shield securely fastened at your back; and the pouch will hold any other items that _shouldn't be lost_. The blades will always be available when needed; each forged, in a lesson taught me by Hephaestus, to strike the target which is most vital; but that target may not be the point you had intended.”

“Io, Artemis, thank you. I pledge to care for these items with my life. I will not make the mistakes I made before.”

“No, child. As we grow, every mistake we make are _new_ mistakes. Now, what gifts have you prepared to present to the Rulers of the Underworld?”

 


	18. Chapter 18

**18**

St Nazaire was little different than any other French port during the war; or, so Steve assumed as he knew no comparison. Disembarking along with the other 800-and-some men into a confusion of wagons and lorries loading recently-delivered supplies; horses and mules afraid of leaving the ships they arrived on but equally fearful of remaining onboard; lines of factory-fresh ambulances sputtering to life after more than a week at sea and probably twice that sitting at a Canadian supply depot; Sergeants barking orders to recruits; and stray dogs just, barking; Steve hadn't thought of what he'd find when he arrived in France, but he'd assumed the recruiters wouldn't be so eager to sign volunteers if the Army wasn't prepared to receive them.

In the recruiting offices, despatch volunteers were encouraged to provide their own machine and that a 'considerable bonus' would be paid to men who enlisted along with their motor. At the same time, no arrangements were provided to transport an individual bike from North America to France, and when Steve brought this up to the processing Sergeant, he was told “not to worry youself, lad, the army will provide. Once ya' git 'ta France, they'll be plenty a' the motors waitin' for ya', or any other bloke crazy enough to take the job - so many waitin', in fact, there were't anough men to drive 'em all. All them broadsides and advertisin' and recruiters who'd never even seen th' front have no idea what they was talkin aboot.”

While the other recruits, as disciplined as possible and under direction of officers quickly formed columns and marched away, there was nowhere for Steve to go. He saw no one that could be identified as a member of his Company, Brigade, or even a Royal Engineer; no sign pointed directions to anything recognizable; and the only motorcycles he saw, far removed from the general commotion and partially hidden behind a stack of wooden cargo crates from which they had recently been un-boxed, _appeared_ to be military motors; at least they were all of the same manufacturer and equipment. The soldier guarding them, or possibly assigning them to various troopers who had gathered around him, was not like any English soldier Steve had ever seen.

“...and so, my friends, my Uncle, the Sultan of...oh, it is a small, far-away country you have never heard of, I am certain – we have no army, and yet he wished to assist in the glorious Fight for Democracy. Despite the pitiful resources of our lands, he purchased and donated these....”

He paused as he counted the machines in front of him.

“ _...eight...ten..._ TEN motorcycles which he donated to the British Government for use by their brave soldiers. Just as you are aware, I am certain, of members of your own Royal Family – may God watch over their riches – who have themselves donated ambulances and even entire hospitals! Of course, My Uncle is unable to personally attend to the delivery of these machines – frail as he is and his duties too pressing; but he did ask that I, serving in his absence, assure that the machines are granted to the men whose duties require them. But to ensure that every motor is properly accounted for, each rider must deposit a small sum – for documentation purposes, only - and in return receive a receipt which, when presented to your commanding officer, the army will immediately repay. I know you are all anxious to ride into battle, but please, my friends, one at a time...”

“This _sort of_ makes sense”, Steve considered. “That Sergeant told me the Army has more motors than they know what to do with....and these just seem to be sitting here. If this guy's from some exotic country, that explains why he's wearing a shirt and tie and a plaid topcoat. And a fez. I guess that _could_ be a uniform, somewhere. Don't British officers wear neckties, even at the Front? And you can't judge a man by his hat. Besides, he's wearing a cartridge belt and carrying a rifle so he must be some type of soldier. In this war I suspect I'll see stranger sights.”

There appeared to be little interest in his offer. Possibly; _probably_ ; these other men were more of the average type and not, like Steve, selected as a despatch rider.

“Here!” Steve called out as he stepped forward. “Trevor, 4th Divisional Signals. I think one of those bikes is probably meant for me.”

“Ah!” the small man quickened. “A brave Canadian!”

“American.”

“My most humble apologies. An _eager_ American!”

Steve reached into the pocket of his coat. “Here, I've got my orders and paperwork...”

“No need! Is there a reason I should not trust you? We each have own own battles, but we are fighting the same war, no? Now, if you will provide me with the insignificant sum of....fifty dollars...which will be promptly repaid by the British Army...”

“Fifty dollars! I could buy a used bike for that. Let me see one of these receipts that will be 'promptly repaid'...”

“I beg your forgiveness of my ignorance. You said you are with the _Fourth_ Divisionals? That arrangement has been made for twenty dollars only, with, of course, prompt repayment.”

“Sure, that's better. All I have are American bills....”

“Hold on there!” Along with the declaration, a sharp whistle sounded just as two men, both dressed in kahki as any other soldier of the British Commonwealth but with bright red covers over their caps emerged from beyond an assembled rank of troopers and began running toward the gathered group.

In accompaniment to, once again, a shrieking whistle, the foremost soldier called out:

“You, there, with the turban – hold fast!” as the second; who could now be identified as a corporal; veered directly toward the self-proclaimed Sheiks' nephew; although Steve was beginning to wonder ifthis man was, in fact, of royal lineage.

“Gentlemen,”, as he turned to run, “I fear my Uncles' selfless gesture has been misinterpreted. C'est la vie!” was the last thing Steve and the group of soldiers heard; and the last they saw of the small man before he disappeared among the city crowds while the Corporal continued his pursuit, showing considerable vigor as he sprinted around the corner of a nearby building even as he persisted in blowing into his whistle.

“Here now, what do you men have to say for yourselves?” Questioned the leading soldier, now identified by the insignia on his sleeve both as a Sergeant; and a representative of the Regimental Military Police.

“You, Canadian with the money in your hand and the half-witted look on your face – what's goin' on, 'ere?”

“American, sir.”

“Oh, _American_ , even better” he replied sarcastically. “And the ranks Sergeant, not _sir_ – I'm not one of them Blighty officers with a gold band on me shoulder.”

“Yes, Sergeant. We; _I_ ; was just about to pick up a bike; I'm a despatch rider, you see, and...”

“Just off the boat, eh? Didn't your officers warn you about the crooks waitin' to take advantage of any sapper too simple to know better?”

“I'm a replacement, 4th Divisional Signals. Didn't come over with any of my officers.”

“Fourth? My God, man, haven't been none 'ere from the 4th in months.”

The RMP Corporal returned, out of breath. He shook his head in a 'no' toward the sergeant.

“Bloody scoundrel. Trying to sell the Kings property. Third time we've lost him this month.” He turned his attention back to Steve.

“You need to report to Area Headquarters, they’ll get you squared away. Just take this street here, make a right at the second intersection and straight on. Can't miss it. And be alert, lad. You're in the war, now. Best not ta' let your guard down. And all the rest 'a ya' - attend to your duties before we arrest the lot for conspirin' to profit from Army property.”

 

* * *

 

The bike Steve was assigned was a Douglas 544, similar to his racing bike but with about a third more horsepower. He hesitated when he first saw the machine he would have to depend upon through whatever he'd come across in the War; as if the Douglas name, itself, now held a curse and any connection he had with one of the bikes would end in tragedy; but when he saw that nearly all the other motorcycles in the Base Depot were also Douglas's and the only other option were a couple of beat-up Triumphs; he accepted that, at least, the Douglas was a machine he was familiar with. But unlike his old 350, the new bike was made to military specifications, with an extra-large fuel tank; front and rear lights _and_ springs; and possibly best of all, oil carried in the sump, with a small window to check the level, so never again would he have to gamble when the valves would start to seize up; or if adding a bit more oil as a precaution would result in the motor to begin smoking. Either option, he realized, wouldn't be desirable in enemy territory.

He'd been told the 4th Division was assigned to the Beaumont-Hamel region, however the bulk of the group, including temporary headquarters, had been established near the town of Albert. The railroad pass he was handed stated:

' _St Nazaire / Albert. Expedient. No revision or stoppage without orders 4th Division HQ_ ' .

The paperwork was stamped ' _Passenger and motor / bicycle / horse must travel together. Passenger does not need to remain within freight wagon_ .' Studying the railroad map fastened to the wall, Steve was happy to see 'expedient' would take the train through Paris, which he'd been looking forward to seeing, even though it appeared on this trip he'd have to view it from the compartment window rather than in person. Mother had always spoken well of the city – when father wasn't within earshot – and she'd secretly wished that one day her children could enjoy the same city she discovered as a young woman on her European Tour. London, she'd never cared for; she'd always hated that city for its noise and dirt and crowds. She'd never understood why anyone; or as she would say 'everyone'; wanted to live there. Paris, though; that was …. _Paris_. Months later, when he was riding along mud-choked roads, wondering if a German patrol was around the next corner or when a shell would burst overhead; when he was carrying messages about an offensive which should have been an Allied victory but became nothing but a seemingly endless series of killing-fields and when it looked like England might actually loose this war; he'd be sorry that as the train passed through the 'City of Lights', he had been fast asleep.

Tout le monde! Amiens! Fin de la linge! Tout le monde hors de train! Amiens! Amiens!”

Steve didn’t know what 'Amiens' was, but according to the sign on the station platform, that's where he was now. The three other passengers sharing his compartment - two men slightly younger than Steve who, immediately upon seeing they would be sitting among soldiers explained in broken English “Swiss – students of the University Zurich – Swiss student”; and the third a British aviator who while pleasant, kept to himself; appeared to have no better understanding of where they were or why the train had stopped. Opening a compartment window, Steve hailed the Train Marshal who had previously passed and was now on his return journey, again yelling “Amiens” and other perfunctory instructions, but with less enthusiasm than he had displayed earlier.

“Excuse me” Steve called out. “Why are we stopped? Does this train continue to Albert?”

“Tout le monde hors de train! Amiens! Amiens!”

This was of little help. In the typical American way, Steve carefully articulated:

“Ex-cuse me. I am an AM-ER-I-CAN. Does the TRAIN go to ALBERT?”

“Pardon me, chap, you’re embarrassing yourself and not improving the opinion of our French allies”, spoke the Flying Officer, a Lieutenant, whom Steve believed had been absorbed in his reading. “Allow me.”

In perfect French – or what appeared to be perfect French as Steve wouldn't know the difference – the Officer and Marshal held a brief, but spirited conversation ending with the Frenchman raising his arms in a sign of abdication and walking away.

“It seems, my friends, we are stuck in Amiens. There's been rumor of Boche activity ahead, and the engineer refuses to proceed any further. We're fortunate he came this far, but there was no track to allow for an earlier turn.”

The two students conferred between themselves. The Lieutenant began to assemble and pack his belongings. Steve sat, puzzled.

“You mean he can just decide when to stop, with no announcement or warning, and everybody has to get out?

“Of course, my good man. The French, you know.”

“Right. And what are the passengers supposed to do? What if we don't want to be in Amiens, or need to be somewhere else?”

“I'd suggest you - _we all -_ simply make do. Just as our Swiss companions here are discussing. Secure lodging, locate restaurants, see the sights – possibly meet a few of the local girls....is that not correct, lads?”

The two students smiled and nodded.

“Ah, to be young and carefree once again.” stated the aviator, himself not more than a year or so beyond undergraduate age.

“You are a Canadian, I see?”

“American.”

“Can't wait to get into the fight, ah? From the crispness of your uniform and earnestness to proceed, I presume you've just crossed the Atlantic and are eager to jump into the fray. 'Make the world safe for democracy' and all that?”

“I'm a despatch rider. Replacement, needed to report immediately to 4th Divisionals. In Albert.”

“Can't depend upon the war to suit our schedules” stated the Lieutenant as he secured the straps on his bag and moved toward the door. “If you're a motorist, I suggest you motor to Albert, or wherever you need to be. Plenty of chaps around to point the way. Can't be more than twenty miles.”

“Sure, thanks. What about you?”

“My field isn't far. Should be no problem finding a lift; _after_ I've called upon a few of the local mademoiselles with whom I've become acquainted, ah? That's what the war's become – days of indifference punctuated by moments of the absurd. Good day.”

Fortunately for Steve, Amiens did seem to be a hub of British activity. Once he had convinced the Freight Master the Douglas was his – helped that no one else was attempting to claim it; and when in the midst of their discussion and neither party seemed to understand the other, Steve jumped on and drove away, leaving the Frenchman skulking off in resignation – he'd managed to orient himself by road signs and the 1912 _'Guide Michelin_ _France_ ' he'd picked up on a whim before departing Canada. While written in French, at least the legends on the maps matched the words on the signs. And according to the maps, the most direct route from Amiens to Albert was via a well-marked roadway directly connecting the two cities. “Should be an easy ride in the country”, Steve thought. “If the clouds weren't so threatening, just the kind of day Keri would have liked for a picnic...”

Within the first three miles outside the city, the roadblocks began. The fist was only a Sapper who was attempting to direct traffic with little success as most drivers ignored him. Further on, two Redcaps were checking paperwork, turning back unauthorized vehicles and allowing only military transport to continue. A mile or so beyond, two wooden barricades completely blocked the road, guarded by four armed RMP backed by a motorcycle with machine gun mounted on the sidecar.

“Sorry Corporal, road's closed. Lads are moving in to cut off a pocket of the enemy and don't need any stray vehicles gettin' in the way.”

“I'm ordered into Albert.” Steve announced as he handed the officer his paperwork. “Replace...”

“Replacement, 4th Divisionals” the sentry replied, examining Steve's papers. “Sorry, lad, can't make an exception. Why don't you go on back to Amiens, get yourself a hot meal and a fresh bed.”

“Or a fresh meal and a hot bed, if ya' get me' meanin'! Aint' that right, Lieutenan'!” shouted one of the soldiers standing by.

“Yes, well, in any case this should be mopped up in a day or so. Only other way 'round is on these country roads; rough going, dangerous. Wouldn't advise it.”

“Thank you, sir”. Steve replied, turning his bike back the direction he had come.

“ _What could be rougher and more dangerous that riding the boards._ ” Steve thought, looking for the first dirt lane he could turn onto.

 

* * *

 

A single farm wagon loaded with cases, furniture, and two people was the only traffic Steve encountered on the back roads. Despite the mud, the surfaces weren't churned up too much and most of the ruts had been smoothed over by the rain. There was more debris to dodge than on a regularly-traveled road – abandoned vehicles, broken wagon wheels, lost crates and so far, two dead horses; and the roads were narrow, most of the way only allowing for one vehicle; but there was no reason he could see to avoid this route. Another two or three hours and he should be at Albert; with any luck he'll be reporting for duty in time for dinner.

 

Tonight, the sniper would find a new position. The nest he'd made within the small group of trees was well-placed, but he'd not seen a target in more than three days and it appeared the British were avoiding this area. Tonight, he'd move to the abandoned church tower overlooking the crossroads; or even go back to the lines. It couldn't be more than seven or eight kilometers, and Captain Junger would be expecting a report. If he started as soon as it turned dark, with any luck he'd return in time for dinner.

 

At one time, grass grew here. Steve assumed fighting in this area had been intense at the start of the war when the Germans quickly pressed forward, only to be pushed back by the French months later. Now, almost a year and a half had passed and still most of the population had not returned. Farmhouses remained empty, missing parts of their walls and roofs while barns stood as little more than barren outlines. The small villages he passed, marked by the signs: _Cardonnette_ ; _Saint-Gratein_ ; _Bavlincourt -_ for those whose signs were still in place - were occupied by the few residents too proud or unsure to leave; the buildings little more than hastily-repaired businesses providing necessities, and all facing a central courtyard or fountain or statue: _Boulangerie_ ; _Photographe_ ; _C_ _afé - Vin -_ _Bière_. He wondered where and how they got the goods they were advertising. Between the villages and in places where the ground was too uneven or swampy for farming, there remained small stands of trees, overlooked or fortunate to have escaped the bombardment. And at the base of all, surrounding and enveloping in an endless morass, was mud. Black, brown, grey and in some places, crimson-shaded mud. Perhaps, Steve considered as he drove on, the worst of the fighting had now passed this region, the land would heal and the people return. It was said, at one time, grass grew here.

 

The sound of an approaching engine was unexpected. Anticipating a potential target; at minimum something to ease his boredom or possibly in satisfaction of both; the sniper took up his position facing the road. It may be nothing; a French farmer attempting to return home; possibly some of his own countrymen that had pushed through the British lines and were advancing to Amiens. Or perhaps a lone English truck; possibly a staff car carrying a general or other high-value target. That's the life of a sniper – never knowing what target the day may bring and when the fates do honor you with a shot, not even clearly seeing who you have killed, only the uniform he wears. Ah. A motorcycle. So it is a lone Englishman. No general would travel alone, but perhaps this soldier is carrying important orders, or on a special mission. The sniper would never know. All he sees is a target.

 

A half mile or so ahead, just off the road to the right, Steve noticed a small stand of trees that looked particularly full, not only as if they had escaped the shelling but actually belonged among other, more verdant surroundings. Particularly as a few hundred yards down the road stood the remains of what once was a three-storey hotel, opulent for its time but now a hollow shell. Maybe at one time couples met under those trees, or children ran and played. “ _Would have made a nice vacation spot_ ”, he thought.

 

In only a few more meters the target would be in range. Yes, through the telescopic sight he could now see a single English soldier; perhaps one of their 'dispatch riders' that the Germans have never felt the need to add to their forces. The dull English with their love of ease and desire for comfort. Horses are far more admirable. A shot to the chest would be most effective; perhaps he will live for a bit, but it will ultimately prove fatal. He's entering the cross hairs; a simple squeeze of the trigger....

 

How a bullet makes an echo when the setting is void of anything to reflect the sound is a mystery. But the crack of the rifle shot – as sharp and clear as if a branch had been split from its trunk – sounded in Steve's ears long after he skidded to a stop. The trees, not a hundred feet away, shuddered and he half-expected a branch to fall - the delayed effect of a shell, or possibly simply decay. What emerged, through, was not a dead branch but a dead body. Dressed in greyish-green, leafy-twigs tucked into every pocket and tied to his arms and legs; a netting of leaves covering his torso; the German marksman dropped to the ground. Where there was one sniper, Steve had heard, there would be more – they almost always worked in pairs – and without a weapon of his own (one would be assigned to him at his headquarters, he was told); Steve was helpless.

“Aye, an' there goes another bloody Hun that won' be botherin' us no more.”

From behind a cracked, half-paned window at the top floor of the hotel stood a figure heavily loaded with belts and bandoliers, dressed in a worn British uniform, his shoulders covered in what appeared to be a khaki cape. He was carefully adjusting the black Glengarry, trimmed in red and white checks and with a large golden badge, he'd just placed on his head.

“Been waitin' days for him to make a move. Couldn't get a clear shot 'til I saw the sun glintin' off his scope. Ya' saved me another cold and empty night, son. So, is the Army comin' down this road, now? Maybe it's time I be makin' a hasty retreat.”

Dazed by the events of the past few seconds – an English soldier, appearing from where there should be none to strike down a German marksman who fell from his perch only a few yards away; a sniper who would have killed Steve _because he was unable to protect himself_ – was so unexpected and unsettling, he must have remained, frozen, on his bike longer than he thought.

“What do ya' have to say for yourself, man? Cat got your tongue? If you're just goin' ta' sit, I'll be right down an' we can share a celebratory drink.”

By the time the soldier appeared in the doorway, Steve had recovered. Recovered from the attack; seeing his rescuer was dressed in a kilt that he was fanning above his hips as he walked was a completely different type of shock.

“Are you, uh... _alone_?”

“I wouldn' be sayin' that, exactly. Always men aroun'. Some you can see; some you canna'.

He reached into one of the pouches hanging from his belt, removed a flask and took a healthy swallow. Steve noticed he didn't offer to share.

“No, I mean where's your Brigade; your Company; your section?”

“Aye, now there's the question, aren't it? It seems they've been a might misplaced. Oh, but I can hear 'em – just over that furthest hill, or beyond the next turn in the road. One day I'll be joining 'em. Over six-hundred of me mates – they canna just a disappeared, now. _Could they_ , lad?”

“No, I guess not.” Steve didn't know how else to answer. “Thanks for, you know, your shot....”

“Think nothin' of it. 'Tis what I do. Every German I can take outta the war, is one day sooner the war'll be over. Best ta' keep your wits about ya.”

“ _He's one to talk”_ , thought Steve.

“I'm headed to Albert. Take you as far as my Regiment HQ, if you'd like....do you...would you....need to look at a map?...“

“No, son, no map kin tell me where I'm goin' anymore than it kin tell me where I've been.” Once again he lifted the flask to his lips. “An' a good day ta' ya' lad.” he announced, wiping his mouth on his sleeve; walking away toward the furthest hill and breaking into song:

“ _And it's Oh, and where be a-gwain?_  
_And what be you a doin'-of there?_  
_Heave down your prong and stamp along_  
_To Tavistock Goosey Fair_

_Us went to see the horses and the heifers and the ewes,_  
_Us went on all them roundabouts and into all the shows._  
_And then it started raining, and a-blowin' to our face,_  
_So off us goes up to the Rose to have a dish of tea._  
_And there us had a sing-song and the folks kept droppin' in_  
_And what with them what knowed us, well us had a drop of gin_  
_And what with one and t'other, us didn't seem to care_  
_Whether us was to Bellever Tor, or Tavistock Goosey Fair....”_

The lyrics faded away as Steve started his bike and continued on to Albert. If he was going to survive this war, he'd have to take more notice of his surroundings; less interest in the landscape; and learn that not everything is as it seems.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**19**

The bombardment Steve endured among that rats maze the 7th Lancashires had buried themselves in; the roaring, moaning, stuttering, screaming of the guns, each an instrument in a chorus of death; had proven too much to bear. He was damned lucky to survive in a place he shouldn’t have stayed at any longer than necessary, and he certainly wasn't going on some wild-goose chase in search of a missing Division in the middle of a battle. Rushing back to his command, the wheels of his motorcycle chattering on the cobbles when they weren't struggling through mud, Steve lost track of time; not time of day, or duration of this mission, but the extent of this nightmare of suffering and waste. How many months had he been at the Front? Four? Six? Ten? Even a week felt like a year. And now, amid the shell bursts a half-mile or more distant but seemingly far closer, each explosion growing more distinct even as Steve sped as quickly as the road would allow; thirty, forty miles per hour to escape their pursuit; it was as if every missile was destined for him alone; lifeless threats whispered, shrieks mockingly announcing their inevitability: _“Death is coming...destruction awaits from every direction...there is no escape....there is no mercy....”._

Steve sprinted forward, opening his throttle full until the speedometer on his Davis sat trapped just beyond 50 as it was designed to go no further; the machine heaving over each fracture in the earth, wheels spinning and sliding through each corner and curve.  _ “Is this how the world ends?”  _ He weighed.  _ “Men fighting for something we don't understand and nothing we even recognize? Is this the 'glory' of war I signed up for – to give my all as I wait for the inescapable call of Death? Is this the future James so eagerly accepted?  _ He nearly ran head-on into the remains of a wagon straddling the road, easily overlooked in the darkness that was illuminated only by his single headlamp and the bursts and flares of the battle. Brought back to the present by his near accident, Steve slowed to a more moderate speed, realizing the fighting he'd been running from was now in the distance and he was in more danger of breaking his neck than being struck by shrapnel. Shrouded in the darkness, the night draping about him as a blanket, his body and mind exhausted, only few minutes passed before he found his reflexes bound to the stream of light that pulled him along the road as his mind fell back into other times and distant places.  _ “Lot easier to be pulled forward, to drift along without expectation, than to struggle and strive for things that are almost close enough to make you think you can reach out and grab them, just a little more effort and safety, happiness, all you wanted is yours. But no matter how hard you try, what you want most is always just out of reach. Worked out better when I just drifted along, like Keri and I did on that summer picnic....let the current carry the boat and wherever it lands, that was good enough for us...and now even Keri is out of reach, James dead, Mother gone, those years lost with nothing to show for it but pain and failure and now, more suffering and death than I ever thought possible.” _

Almost on cue, he passed by a group of wounded on their way to the nearest aid station; Steve too absorbed or lost to see if they needed help or even ask from what regiment they came.

“ _What was I trying to prove, who do I think I am to enlist in this war, not even my war, not my fight....just to prove I could take James' place? To show the world that I am good enough, as good as he was? I can't change the world”_ , He stiffly chuckled. _“All my life, what have I been chasing – success? - respect? - make a name for myself? Or maybe not chasing, but trying to escape; running from failure, running from reason. Running not toward, but away. Just like I did as a boy. Running without direction, as long as I kept running. Running with no place to go._ ”

The realization struck him as if he had collided full speed into a brick wall. Suddenly aware of what he should have recognized months before; struck with an understanding of what he'd heard from so many: His mother and father; James; Keri; Leo; even 'Chief', that smuggler he'd just _run_ from, had been saying, the answers, the _purpose_ placed in front of him and for once, he'd been able to reach out and grasp what had been eluding him for so long. It's not what you want; not what you think you deserve; it's what you _believe_. What guides a man shouldn't be his actions; but the results of those actions. That's the only way to make a difference. And now that he held the realization he'd been seeking; all along without even knowing what he sought; he couldn't understand how there had ever been a time he had _not_ understood. Clearing his head, he took account of his surroundings: The road ahead – empty; the fighting, he'd left far behind. To both sides pitch dark fields and forest, unknown and foreboding even in daylight but now oddly welcoming as if the trees themselves would shield him from any dangers. Just like that tree in the park he was sitting under when his parents found him years ago. But he was no longer a boy running away. He wouldn't need the trees or his doubt or his fears to shield him from his duty. To protect him from living his _life_.

“Could really use that Michelin guide now”, he sighed; “already five years old, didn't think it was of much more use. At the time, seemed more valuable as fuel for the trench stove.” Even without a map, he decided he couldn't be more than a few miles west of  Gueudecourt; where the 49th and the 21st were cut off, where all those boys were catching hell. Somewhere he could be needed. Somewhere he could make a difference. Somewhere to run  _ toward _ .

Steve turned his bike and set off down the first East -Southeast lane he found. “As I remember, there's no sizable towns south-east of Gueudecourt. Most recognizable marker should be a forest...what's that name....oh, sure: _'Bois d'Elville'_ ; Delville Wood.”

 

* * *

 

When there is little else to embrace, a soldier must hold onto whatever principle or conviction he can muster. Duty; fear of letting down your friends; patriotism; self-centered vanity; perseverance that one day this struggle will come to an end; or any manner of faith and assurance can, in the height of battle, be no better than the most-carefully crafted fantasy, transient and uncertain. But if nothing else, war teaches that man himself is short-lived and fleeting; nothing is certain other than the next moment may bring, to you or others, death. A soldier can shift from fear to callousness; from indifference to panic; yet at his core, he remains the same man. So there is comfort to be found that within each, as fleeting as he may be, are his wishes and hopes and promise, set behind him as a well-built wall that allows the soldier to ignore pain and overcome horrors and defy death, if only for that moment; because that which is built of the certainty of his beliefs will always stand firm. But let any man stripped of these beliefs; or worse, a man who does not even know what his beliefs may be; face the reality of war and stare at the terrors that surround him; and that man becomes lost.

Steve saw the infernos of battle before he felt their effects. Star-shells and bursts and fusillades filled the sky as a thousand fireflies, abruptly flaring into light only to quickly be overshadowed and extinguished by the arrival of still more sparkling, brilliant specters who themselves flashed for only seconds before they falter and die.  _ Man _ , Steve realized,  _ has finally found a way to surpass the number of stars in the sky.  _ Riding only a few hundred yards further he could begin to hear the roar of artillery; the rumble of the largest guns, their thunder almost that of a giant awakened; the outcry of smaller field pieces, advancing in an almost percussive rhythm, accompanied by their shells freed, momentarily, from their earthly existence, screaming in exultation until they, too, tumble to the ground. Beneath it all - sounding so small and insignificant among the cacophony – was the crackle and pop of rifle fire, immediately followed by the thump of bullets striking wood, sandbags, or mens bodies.

He didn't know where the 21st could be found; or for that matter, the 49th or any Division, Regiment or even an entire Army Group. Yet did it matter? Approaching the slope of a small hill, in every direction save the way he had come he could see the battle unfolding; men struggling to advance only to be thrown back or, at the sound of machine guns, limply drop where they had stood; wounded crawling toward their lines, huddling in craters thick with blood-stained mud, struggling to find a way past the barbed wire only to be picked off one by one by snipers. The forest; or what remained of the trees, the landscape nothing but stumps, roots and barren trunks remaining from days of endless shelling; walls of fire begun by the _ Flammenwerfer _ , German shock-troops carrying bottled oil that, when ignited, would inflame anything within fifty feet or more. The yells and screams of officers giving orders; men calling out to their companions; and others crying in agony. So no matter where Steve went; whatever help he could provide; it would go largely unseen and unknown among all but to those he brought aid. Driving to within yards of the British support trenches - he could now sense the explosions through the ground and feel the heat on his face – he pulled off along a rise that formed the rear of the fortifications, overlooking a No Mans Land that in some areas separated the opposing forces by no more than a few dozen yards.

Slightly below and to his right, illuminated by the continual yet inconsistent light of rockets and Very flares, Steve could just make out a British raiding party crossing through the trenches. Anticipating their path, it appeared they were using the relative safety of the support trenches to move around and to the left of the German defenses, planning to emerge along a small stream bed at the forests edge that was within a few dozen feet from the furthest German outpost which appeared, for the time, un-manned. If they succeeded in reaching this goal, Steve determined, they would be able to secure a portion of the German defenses and possibly open this sector to a British advance. As there was little he could do to assist their objectives; and an unknown and unexpected sudden arrival would likely get him shot and reveal their position; he turned to look for a Headquarters or Command Post or officer to report to; when out of the corner of his eye he saw a glint of metal from within an opening of the distant bunker the British squad was working toward.

Focusing on the concrete fortification, despite the blinding white of flares against the fluttering strobe of exploding shells, he could see movement in that blockhouse. It wasn't abandoned; there was at least one MG8, the standard German machine gun, aimed toward the forest edge and from the amount of movement, a full machine gun crew. Also, motion further down the German trenches showed an entire squad of Bosch infantry advancing to reinforce the outpost. The British were walking into a trap.

Steve's first thought was to yell out to the men; but in this confusion of sound, he probably wouldn’t be heard and even so, it's likely no one would pay attention. He could drive down as fast as possible, intercept the group before they are in range of the German guns; but by racing a lone motorcycle through the night toward German lines he could expect to be shot by either one side or the other. But he'd be doing  _ something _ . In seconds the raiding party would be exposed at the stream bed and within sight of the guns. Without any additional regard – other than him thinking ' _ this won't be much different than taking those sixty-degree curves on the boards _ ' - he straightened his front wheel and set to advance the throttle as far as it would go. At that same instant a poorly-aimed shell whistled into the tree not more than thirty feet to Steve's right, partially shattering the remains and throwing a flight of splinters into the ground; the air; and Steve's body. “Yeah,  _ just _ like the boards” he said aloud, opening up his engine and pushing his bike over the edge of the embankment and directly in the path of the German weapons. 

 

When his wheels hit the ground – a pretty good landing, he thought to himself – he had either cleared or passed the British wires - in the smoke and haze and uncertain light, it was difficult to know - and was now riding parallel to the German trenches. Moving to the left, toward the forest edge and the stream bed and the concrete outpost, he could hear bullets ringing near him, but so far the only injuries he could feel were the dozens of splinters embedded in his right side. He'd turned off his headlamp - at least that made him a little less of a target – and it was difficult to see what was in his path, but by keeping close to the German wire he was able to avoid the worst of the craters and could hopefully spot the one unknowable but key aspect to his plan. His plan, he realized a bit too late, not being all that well thought out. But directly in front of him, he saw what he'd hope to find – the base of the bunker had been built to slope upward from the ground, forming a extended foundation designed to strengthen the bulwark but also perfectly aligned as a ramp. Angling toward the embankment; which by its position also shielded him from much of the German fire; Steve pushed the engine past its maximum. The Douglas flew over the German wires, almost clearing the bunker if not for the motors' rear wheel clipping the edge, arcing the bike out of control just as Steve jumped free. Shocked and terrified by this new British weapon that dives directly into a trench, the machine gun crew abandoned their positions to run for safety; however the only direction they knew as safe took them directly into the path of the falling motorcycle and while one man was able to escape, the second and third were not so fortunate as the bike hurdled onto one, immediately breaking his back; and slamming into the head of the other, knocking him out.

Steve had landed on the edge of the far side of the earthworks. Without standing, he pushed himself into the trench, grabbing the MG8 and pointing it toward the German squad approaching just beyond his broken bike. Briefly delayed while trying to maneuver around the motorcycle, they made easy targets for the machine gun which cleared the trench of any immediate enemy threat, but also alerted the advancing British who, believing the gunfire was directed at them, pitched two grenades at the gunner.

The first landed near enough to Steve that he was able to pick it up and throw into further back into the German trenches, where it destroyed a supporting beam, partially collapsing one side of the trench wall and effectively sealing the line from counter-attack. The second bomb lay far enough away that Steve was able to grab it only at the last second, lobbing it clear just before it exploded in mid-air, the blast knocking him off his feet, slinging him against the concrete bunker; the impact knocking the air out of his lungs and leaving him struggling to remain conscious.

The last thing Steve remembered was a bayonet pointed at his chest; the face of a British soldier looking down at him; and hearing words which seemed oddly removed from motion of the soldiers mouth: “Blimey, Captn' - I think he's one of ours.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

**20**

The first thing Steve saw was a British Colonel looking down at him and a voice not quite matching movement of the mans lips: “Ah, Corporal Trevor, I see you're back with us. Bloody fortunate to have men like you on our side.”

Though Steve couldn't recognize it at the time (having just awakened from a coma, he later learned, he'd been under for nearly a week); the officer greeting him as he awakened was impeccably dressed in a clean, pressed, tailored uniform with few medals or insignia for a man of his age and rank. Clearly he had seen little action at the Front; or if he had, he took great lengths to conceal it.

“Sure...where am I? Who are you?

“Third Canadian General, Boulogne-sur-Mer. You can call me Colonel Douglas. Douglas, eh? Fitting, isn't it, taking into account your exploits on that motor-bike of yours and all, wouldn't you say? Jolly good show, that. Saved many a mans life. Cursed Hun re-took that same ground days later; but such is war, eh?”

“Third Canadian...?”

“Hospital. Took quite a blow from that grenade, not to mention leaping headlong into a German machine gun bunker and a side-full of splinters. Just sent you up here for a bit of a rest, get you back in trim for the ceremony.”

“Right. Ceremony?”

“General Haig himself will be presenting your VC, schedule allowing.”

“VC?”

“Captain of that raiding party you saved put you up for the Victoria Cross. Quite an honor, you know, particularly for a.... _'C_ a _nadian'_ , let us say. Citation corroborated by the patrols' Sergeant and, of all, people, the Regimental Chaplin. Was on the font lines ministering to wounded who couldn't be moved. Saw the whole thing. In fact, your little adventure is what brought you to our attention.”

“Right. And who's attention did I attract?”

“Let's just say we're the men who fight the war behind the War. Very incognito and surreptitious, you know. Somewhat of an exclusive club, you might say. Only for the above-average. Need an invitation and all. But we can discuss that later. Now, lad, your job is to regain your strength so we can get back to winning this war. Doctors say you should be up and about within the week. I'll check back in a day or so. Chin up, ole' boy!”

“Right.”

 

* * *

 

Four days passed before Steve again saw Colonel Douglas. He arrived just as the Doctor had handed Steve his FMC stamped 'cleared to return for duty'; the Colonel returning almost as if he had somehow known to appear on just this day, at just this moment.

“Ah, all tip-top, are we? Very good. Much to accomplish and the war waits for no man.”

Before Steve could reply – or ask any of the many questions he'd been pondering these past days – Colonel Davis handed him a folder of paperwork; a new ID card; and a fresh uniform.

“Just a few signatures, the usual proceedings, make the boys at the desks happy.”

Opening the packet Steve found documents indicating his transfer from the 4th Division and releasing him from ' _Any obedience or committal heretofore directly entered into with the Command of named Division; or any Brigade; Regiment; or Section directly reporting within named Division_ '; an itemization acknowledging assignment and receipt of the uniform and other items he assumed the Colonel had brought with him; and a receipt for one ' _Motorcycle, Douglas, Royal Engineer Despatch. Destroyed and/or lost outside of direct order or enemy action. £276 / 8.'_   Above the signature line was the stamp 'PAID IN FULL'.

Ignoring the remaining forms Steve said to himself as much as to anyone nearby: “They're charging me for the motorcycle? Is that routine?”

“Just a formality”, the Colonel replied. “Army paper-pushers. Doesn't apply to us. All been taken care of. The bulk are just for record-keeping. You can look through it as we drive. Change into your uniform, here” - he handed Steve the finely-made uniform, higher quality than the enlistee's clothing he'd been issued in Canada - “and we'll be on our way.”

Steve was confused when he saw the jacket held the rank insignia of three diamonds over a field of two stripes, precisely embroidered onto the sleeves.

“Uh, this isn't right, this is a...”

“ _Captains_ uniform, Captain Trevor. Somewhere among your packet is the commission. Duties, responsibilities, pay rate's all detailed. Plus good for morale. Men need to see any lad can become a hero with a bit of fortitude.”

By the time Steve had dressed – the uniform fit perfectly, as if it had been custom made; yet _how did they know his measurements?_ \- the Colonel was outside, waiting in the backseat of his car. Steve was briefly taken aback; yet no longer surprised by the events that were unfolding; to see the vehicle was chauffeured by a Subaltern.

“Come on man, much to do.” Colonel Douglas pronounced.

As they drove away – to where and for what reason Steve hadn't been told - he was relieved that no matter what happened, at least whatever occurred would allow him to possibly clear his mind of the past few nights. Nights broken and restless by visions of riding down endless roads, roads that began as mud but soon turned into grasping hands reaching out to pull him downward; hands belonging to men dying and corpses long dead. Nightmares that he couldn't escape even during the days; when repeatedly the lyrics he'd heard weeks ago ran through his head, lyrics based on a popular song but altered by men seeking to take their minds off of the suffocating, inescapable wreckage and slaughter that any man, no matter how strong, can bear for only so long without relief. A song meant for whimsy; for escape; but ironically, now embedded into Steve's consciousness.

 

_'If you were the only Boche in the trench,_  
_And I had the only bomb,_  
 _Nothing else would matter in the world that day,_  
 _I would blow you up into eternity._  
 _Chamber of Horrors, just made for two,_  
 _With nothing to spoil our fun;_  
 _There would be such a heap of things to do,_  
 _I should get your rifle and bayonet too,_  
 _If you were the only Boche in the trench_  
 _And I had the only gun.'_

 

* * *

 

“Is that all?” Impassively stated Judge Rhadamanthys. “By a single realization of his own frailty; of the fallibility of mankind; he now deserves attention of the Gods?”

“I can see he opened his mind to that which is greater than himself” added Judge Aeacus. But he is but a single man; what effects could he possibly determine? And besides, he is not even dead. I do not know how we would judge.”

Judge Minos stood in appeal. “No, brothers, there is more. But all show this man has seen beyond his pettiness and selfish desires; beyond the prejudiced indulgences of mankind, itself. He has begun to realize not only what he knows; but recognize what he does not know. Within his life is one instance in which he willingly took on the guise of an aviator to divert attention from another who was in greater danger. There are occasions of his reaching back in attempts to correct the thoughtless wrongs of his youth. He is no longer the man we viewed earlier. It is true this man is not dead; yet the Olympians have charged us, the judges of the dead, to decide his fate. The Gods have taken an interest that we must not question, but respect. I maintain for these reasons, this man, Steve Trevor, should neither dwell among the dead nor as one of the living; but continue on his path toward redemption even as he serves to redress and re-balance the burdens of his actions on others.”

The Judges conferred among themselves. As each can interpret the understanding of the others as well as they know the minds of those whom they judge; there was little to discuss. Judge Rhadamanthys, chief among the three, turned his attention toward Steve:

“And so, we, the Judges of the Underworld and of all that cross from life into death; or, as it has been determined, from life into the existence that neither lives nor dies but continues until his worth is unquestioned; resolve that you, Steve Trevor, are granted the responsibility to ease the burdens of those you have failed; amend your actions among those you have wronged; and always without direct guidance or interference in what mortals consider their free will, return to their appointed path those whose lives you have caused to stray from their journey.”

“And how I am supposed to do that?” In the time the Judges had examined Steves actions and experiences and potential, he had only felt the passing of a few minutes. “Don't I, uh, get to have a say...”

“So we speak.”

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**21**

When evening is only beginning to settle and Diana, astride Photine, reaches the northern edge of the fortified city, Menalippe; Egeria; General Aella and a troop of twenty warriors stand assembled and mounted. To the side Hippolyta, upon Zephyra, her silver-white mare; along with the Royal Guard uneasily await, reigning and calming their restless horses.

“Daughter, I will have a word with you” the Queen beckons, compelling Diana to approach at her side.

“Once again you depart under the cloak of night.”

“It cannot be helped; Menalippe needs the stars to chart our direction.”

“You are aware I am against this foolish journey.”

“Mother, I can do it....”

“Yet I have agreed for the accord of all. It is not too late to end this folly.”

“No, mother, I must go. I cannot allow my...”

“Yes, you ' _cannot allow your failures to result in the suffering of others'_. But do you not realize that _any_ action you take may result in anothers' pain? I thought I could not bear any greater sorrow. Today, you prove I was mistaken.”

“I know I cannot right all wrongs. But is it not good and true to correct what harm I can? By removing Steve from Hades, is that not _one_ error I can correct?”

“Only at the risk of your life. And that of Menalippe; and Egeria; and possibly others.”

“I will not allow any harm to come to them.”

“That is not always in your control, daughter. To place a man above those of your family is not what you have been taught. Diana, you must remember men and women are different.”

“Of course, mother, I am aware of the differences.”

“No, I speak not of _mankind;_ but of men, themselves; the male that exists in all forms, in all creatures. There are stories you do not know; those I have withheld; of the times Amazons have encountered men, and for us, each of these leads to misery. There is death and sorrow and enslavement, not just of the body but of the mind, and of the heart. Just as the arrival of your Steve Trevor brought the death of Antiope, and dozens of our warriors.”

“That was not his fault, mother.”

“Nonetheless, those were the results. You may believe it is your duty to try and right whatever wrong you think you have committed; to challenge Thanantos himself and emerge the victor. You may believe your feelings for this man justify any action. I cannot stop you, no matter how much I may wish it. But know this: All men, from god to human, will falter. In each there is an emptiness they will fill by any means they warrant. From the deepest reach of my heart, my daughter, please recognize they do not deserve you.”

“I do not know where my feelings spring from, Mother; why I feel for those as I do, or where this path leads. But it is only because of me that Steve sacrificed his life. If I had recognized Ares when he stood beside me, in the guise of a harmless mediator; and not been blinded by my belief that the God of War could only appear in the form of a warrior; I could have ended the War and stopped the killing and the poison Steve died for would never had existed. It is my fault, Mother. To try and restore what is lost is my duty. I know men can be filled with the deepest darkness or the brightest light. If I don't inspire men to their highest good, I will have failed again.”

“Just be CAREFUL, my daughter. Darkness is a formidable enemy.”

And into the fading light the Amazons depart.

By her knowledge of the skies and the island, Menalippe led the group through an uneventful journey, arriving at the base of Hells Gate while the night was at its darkest. Camp established; horses cared for; and following a simple but fulfilling meal, all but the guards on patrol set themselves to sleep – or prepare – for the morning.

In times past, when history had only just awakened and Zeus directed the Amazons to forever secure this portal to the Underworld, Captains Egeria and Cyanea, accompanied by second-in-command Philippus and fifty warriors, were entrusted with that responsibility. Following a difficult two-day journey (for at that time the Amazons did not have the knowledge or familiarity of their land they now possess), they located the Gate roughly chiseled into the side of a rocky cliff, among the remains of stunted, withered trees above a dry riverbed within a landscape of parched earth. Alien among the abundance blessing the extent of Themyscira, this land had been poisoned by its nearness to the doorway to the Underworld; or perhaps by the beings that had, while the island was under the possession of Hercules, been allowed to escape. While Zeus and Hades had sealed the opening with a stone slab; one god fastening the interior, the other the outside; it was the task of the Amazons to ensure no cavity or outlet remained and no cursed soul or demon - the Furies of Hades – could be freed. Testing the stone the Captains believed it secure and set about directing their warriors into scaling the cliff face to collect lumber from the escarpment above, their plans to encase the gate within an impenetrable fortress. However they had overestimated the strength of the stone – or the determination of the Furies to breach the barrier- which cracked, allowing one demon to push through. The spirit immediately possessed the nearest being, Philippus' horse, changing it to a horned, fanged monster whose only purpose was to kill its rider and all present. Interceding with sword in one hand and spear in the other, Egeria engaged in brutal and inhuman combat with the creature, ultimately slaying the demon and saving her lieutenant's life; but not before other Furies had found the fissure and, climbing and piling over each other, clawing at the rock in an attempt to enter the World, began to rupture the slab. Cyanea realized the stone was quickly crumbling and threw herself into the collapsing barrier, defending the opening with all her ability even as Furies reached out, grasping her by the legs and attempting to pull her into the Underworld. Without a thought to herself and as her final words, she ordered the warriors to release from their carts and horses all the lumber they had collected, burying her and the Gate under tons of tree trunks, branches, and loose rock that had been dislodged in the fall. The death of Cyanea; the only Amazon lost, throughout their mission of shielding and securing the Gate; had never left Egeria. And now the memory is foremost on her mind as she stands once again amid the rocks and rubble and ruin, staring at the Fortress she thought would never again be opened; wondering if – or who – would not return.

“Captain”, Menalippe asks as she walks toward the commander, “have you determined the best way to pass through the walls so we can enter the Gate quickly and with the least disturbance? Aella must be able to seal the opening behind us, and we want any beings within to be unaware of our arrival....for as long as possible.”

“Yes, when we constructed the fortifications we allowed for an entry. Hoping an entry would never be necessary. The Furies are not aware of our arrival so there should be none awaiting our entrance and, with the help of the gods, few until we descend deeply into the Underworld.”

“We will hope. There is only...”

“Menalippe! Egeria! I am prepared. Let us proceed to fulfill our duty.” Diana; perhaps more enthusiastic than would be expected of someone entering Hell; approaches her companions.

“Egeria if you will show me the opening I will enter the portal and clear the way. You may follow and....”

“No, Diana. Hippolyta entrusted to me your safe return, along with that of Egeria. I will enter first and she will follow, guarding you from any harm.”

“I do not ask for her protection.”

“It is my duty, and my honor, Diana, to watch over you.”

“As the representative of the Queen you will obey my decisions and...”

“This my journey and therefore I will be first. I will not allow another.....”

Alerted by the rising voices, General Aella moves toward the three. “Is there some question about our mission? Can I assist?”

“General, I believe it is my purpose – as granted by our Queen – to safely guide our journey into the Underworld, just as I have lead us through the night. My niece, however, questions that authority. And our Captain of the Guard seems to prefer harm come to herself, rather than either of us. We cannot proceed until this is settled.”

“I understand” Aealla replies. “So each of you is willing to sacrifice herself for the others; but unwilling to set aside her will.”

“This has nothing to do with will; it is about assurance” Menalippe replies;

“It is to fulfill my resolve”, responds Diana;

“I have no higher duty”, Egeria adds.

“My duty in this, fortunately, is clear. I am only to secure the Gate and prevent any from the Underworld to enter this world. But if I understand correctly the desire of Hippolyta, it is that Diana be guided on her journey to find and rescue this man that she believes so important; and that every Amazon that embarked on this mission returns safely. If I were presented this as a military problem, it would be clear that Diana must enter first...”

“General, I must point out my sister....”

“...due to her abilities and passion, just as I would order my best troops to the front of an attack. Immediately followed by – and again, this is only if I were planning a military operation – my most versatile troops; those with the ability to adapt their skills to any situation; in your case, Egeria; and place at the rear not warriors who are least able, but those with the knowledge and resources that without which the battle cannot progress. But that is only if this were my challenge, and not the simple secure-and-hold mission I have been commanded.”

Menalippe stood resigned to what had been proven obvious. “Thank you, Aella. You have...shown me what I should have recognized. Egeria, you are correct in your duty to protect Diana; but also, your mastery of arms and selflessness of person is the strength that connects us all. You will follow Diana, who will enter first; and precede me. I will ensure no beings escape and if so they will be dealt with by the General and her warriors. Diana, you are to employ the greatest caution and take no risks. Is this clear?”

“Of course, Menalippe” answers Egeria.

“I shall be on my feet, my Aunt.”

 

* * *

 

Egeria and Philippus had completed the fortifications about Hells Gate in excellent fashion. While completed years; or decades; or millennia ago – for time on Themyscira, just as it is for the gods, is measured differently than it is among men – the barricade held strong with no sign of assault or corruption.

“Here”, states Egeria. “Removal of these logs will expose a rounded door that can be rolled away and quickly replaced. Once the timbers are re-set the fortress should again be impassable. If we move quickly to both open and re-seal the portal, nothing from the Underworld will know we have entered.”

“Diana, it is not too late to turn back. No one will regard a change of mind as a weakness. Are you intent upon this purpose?”

“Yes, Menalippe.”

“Very well. General, direct your warriors to remove the barricade and prepare to roll away the stone. Diana, proceed with care.”

Eight warriors set themselves to pulling away tree trunks; massive branches that had been securely fixed between rock crevices; boulders set to plunge into the paths of anyone, or anything, not aware; and skillfully-designed devices that, if sections of timber were removed in an improper order, would cause the entire wall to converge and collapse. Six warriors stand at either side of the progressively revealed entrance, ready to rapidly roll the door open and just as swiftly, return it to position. Nearby, beside Aella, the remaining warriors both mounted and on foot wait, arms drawn and at the ready. In less time than would have been expected the barriers are cleared, warriors placing themselves in position and prepared to remove the stone doorway. Diana steps forward, takes her shield from her back and grasps the Sword of Athena; rather, of Zeus; in her hand. Egeria prepares her spear and unsheathes her sword. Menalippe stands with bow, arrow, and strapped to each of her upper arms, daggers at the ready.

“Open the portal.”

The first impulse of all was to turn away. Not from any demon or Fury or evil being that emerged; but from an assault to the senses which is, in itself, a form of evil. While no grasping hands reach out; horned monsters or spitting imps or any other form known or unknown; the odor that burst forth cannot be identified as anything recognizable but rather the smell of pain and anguish and death. A blackness almost tangible in its void rushes from the opening, sheeting all it touches in gloom, for a moment draining all light until overcome by the sun. The sounds of endless voices fill the air; but these are not the pained screams of the tortured but the somber pleading and empty moaning of those forgotten yet who continue to clamor for help. Rousing her strength, Diana steps forward into the doorway, almost immediately disappearing into the blackness. Quickly Egeria moves ahead, following Diana and about to enter when, from the Underworld, two stone plates begin to close upon the entry securing the door from the inside.

Upon entering the Underworld, Diana was thrust from day to night; or rather, from brilliant sun to an eternal twilight were all is muted and every shadow appears whole. While from the outside the Underworld appears as an empty void, within its realms a murky illumination pervades all, spreading from underfoot to horizon to overhead with no variation in tone or intensity. While she could determine forms among her surroundings, these are only visible due to their motion and not their contrast. Looking back toward the entrance in an attempt to re-gain her bearings and assure herself that Egeria and Menalippe have safely entered, all she sees of the expected sunlight is a narrowing slit bounded by heaving, quavering shapeless forms between the closing stones.

“Diana!” Immediately as Egeria was blocked from entering the portal, she thrust her spear into the remaining opening, wedging it between the two stone plates. While formed of steel and olive wood **,** the spear would not long hold. Four warriors rushed forward, grasping the plates in an attempt to re-open the doorway; or at least prevent it from closing any further; but the pressures from inside were too strong and inch by inch the Amazons were loosing their struggle.

“Diana! Be strong!” Menalippe yells, bow raised but with no enemy at which to direct her arrow; “We will find a way inside! Do not falter!”

On the other side of the portal, Diana could only watch as the opening slowly closes, Egerias spear bowing, soon to splinter leaving Diana alone. She cuts and slashes at the grey forms surrounding the doorway; but for each shape she strikes down, more arise in its place. And these forms did not seem to be forcing the door to close; in fact, they did not appear to be attacking her at all but only acted to prevent her from approaching the entrance. Rather than threatening, they appear simply as a _presence_ , resembling an eternal animate field; as a conscious fluid or self-aware ooze; just as the shapes and forms that had arisen from the whirlpool in an attempt to draw her downward.

In the few seconds since Diana had entered the Underworld, Aella evaluated the situation and shaped the only plan possible. “Ram!” she commanded, yelling above the confusion and gesturing with her arms the general arrangement of wood, rocks, and doorway. Without further direction four mounted warriors secure ropes to their saddles, throwing the lengths around two large boulders on either side of the portal and to six Amazons on foot who immediately wrap and fasten the coils to a large timber that had only moments ago served to bolster the fortification. Directing their horses in unison, the log is drawn between the rocks until the ropes strain as the beam angles into the air, supported only by the pull of the horses and directed by two women who had scaled the boulders, grappling the timber until it is perpendicular with the portal. When all was prepared; actions which took no longer to complete than it would have taken to direct; at Aellas cry of “Away!” each of the four cavalry, as one, slice their ropes while the two Amazons atop the rocks set the log along its final path.

“Diana! Make way! Ram!” Menalippe calls out as the log sweeps by in a flourish, crashing into the two rock slabs – now almost closed upon themselves – with a resounding 'crack', followed by the rush of hundreds of rock fragments spinning through the air. When all is settled, the doorway stands clear, the slabs destroyed but the doorway itself enlarged so the opening now exceeds the diameter of the rounded stone fashioned to guard the entrance. Only the stacks of lumber and rock piled above the portal – a final trap set by Egeria and Philippus during construction of the fortification – remain to seal the gate.

As Egeria and Menalippe rush forward they are met by dozens of horned, fanged, and slavering demons emerging from above, below, and beyond the Gate; each seeking a victim to possess as well as those to kill. Placing her bow over her shoulder and pulling both knives from their sheaths Menalippe fights her way into the doorway even as she spots Diana, from the inside cutting down Furies before they can exit. Egeria remains behind in an attempt to prevent any of the demons from entering into the bodies of horses – or Amazons; spearing one even as she slices into another, feeling the tear of talons ripping at her armour before that creature, also, is severed on the point of a warriors sword.

“Aella – seal the portal!” She cries out, her voice nearly overpowered by the unearthly screams and screeches of the Furies. “Now! Before all of Hades is let loose!”

“Egeria, fall back!” Aella, still mounted yet steadily drawing her bow at the marauding hellions, sees that Egeria has positioned herself just to the outside of the doorway; to seal the opening now would kill the Captain.

“Aella – do not wait! Seal the Gate!” For every demon struck down, it is as if ten more emerge. “Aella! It is your duty!” The battlefield is filled with blood and bodies; yet, until now, all the bodies appear to be those of Furies. While some Amazons have fallen, they continue to fight on one knee, or by favoring one arm as the other hangs useless. It is only a matter of time before her warriors will begin to join the dead.

“Calista! Euboea! Seal the portal!” Both warriors, in the split second between slaying one demon and engaging another, look toward Egeria, defending the doorway; and to their General. Obeying their commander's order both slice at the ropes supporting the rockfalls until the massive logs begin to break free, forming an avalanche of wood, rock and debris that smashes into and carries still more rubble; clouds of dust obscuring and blinding all until the cliff face itself is in motion, scattering demons among warriors who quickly dispose of them; crushing Furies who attempt to escape by hiding among the crevices. Gleaming within the dust the blade of Egerias sword and tip of her spear can still be seen, defending the royal family; fulfilling her duty; until the end. Suddenly another light appears within the haze; a golden strand wrapping itself around Egeria, pulling her beyond the portal, into the Underworld, just as the avalanche crashes into the opening destroying the Gate itself and surrounding the entrance under tons of rock compressed and thickened with the remains of beams, board and timber, sealing within the Underworld all those condemned to its void; along with three who plan only a brief visit.

 

* * *

 

“Diana, I am in your debt” gasps Egeria, coughing and breathless in the dust. “You should not have placed yourself in danger for my benefit.”

Diana coils the Lasso of Hestia and returns it to her side.

“We are as one. Each of us must care for the others.”

Back to back the three women arrange themselves in skirmish position, expecting the onslaught of demonic forces certain to attack. But there is nothing more to battle. As inexplicably as they had arrived, the evils of Hades had vanished, drawn back into Tartarus or everlasting inferno or whatever abyss from which they had emerged. While the amorphous grey shapes remained, rising not from beneath the ground but forming the surface, itself; these did not attack nor appear to present any danger. Surely they constituted a _presence_ ; but what, or who these shapes were was not known.

“Menalippe”, Diana spoke while the three continue to stand at each others back, prepared for battle; “do you know of this place? In what part of the Underworld have we arrived?”

“As chronicled in the texts, I believe this to be The Asphodel Meadows. It is the realm of neither the good nor the bad; for all who are sentenced to this impermanence it is a mindless, meaningless endurance meant to remind the dead of all they had forsaken in life. In time, when there is no one remaining alive with memory of these souls, they fade away as if they had never existed.”

“Do you think we will....find Steve in this place?”

“You say he died selflessly. If this is also how he lived his life, the Judges of the Underworld may favor him to dwell in Elysium, the realm of heroes.”

“ _A lair; a murder; and a smuggler_ ”, Diana remembers. As Etta had said, perhaps these actions were only done for a higher good?

“No, Steve would not be here. He was a good man. We must seek the realm of Elysium. That is where we will find Steve.”

Cautiously the three begin to move apart, each looking for dangers seen and unseen; vigilant yet growing in familiarity of their surroundings.

Egeria offers: “And we cannot avoid Hades, himself”, tentatively testing the pulsating surface with her spear; “If we seek Him out, present our gifts and explain our purpose perhaps he will allow us to complete our mission and return without interference.” In reaction forms reach out only to quickly recede; seemingly not as a threat but in submission.

“Yes, that is unavoidable. Diana, do you have your offering?”

“At my side. I trust in the gods that it has withstood the journey.”

“You have not confirmed its worth?”

“The offering is fragile and easily lost. I have taken every precaution. I am certain it is suitable.”

There is little use lecturing her now, Menalippe resolves. “Then we must proceed. The texts do not describe where the throne of Hades can be found; only that, in the Underworld, he may be anywhere and everywhere. I believe he will prefer to remain where there is the greatest suffering; therefore we must descend into the furthest reaches. Ahead the ground seems to rise; from there we can overlook a greater area.”

And the three move ahead, each within her own purpose: To seek; to assure; to defend. Each carefully measures her gait and tests each footstep; for as they walk the ground flows and changes, sometimes taking the shape and form of an easily-traveled path; yet with another step as mushy and viscid as a primeval bog. Frequently the soundness beneath one foot is betrayed by the fluidity beneath the other, a disturbing disconnect in which the placement of every step is questioned as the women stumble and fall, growing ever more insecure of the shapeless morass. Despite the earlier debate of who will lead and who will follow, that concern quickly becomes irrelevant as the Amazons trudge forward, more often assisting one another side-by-side than proceeding in file.

Suddenly Menalippe disappears from view, falling not as by gravity but compelled by force, the surface around them changing from unwieldy globs of protoplasm that rise but quickly fall in response to their footsteps into a chaos undulating and bursting forth in violence and passion. The surrounding forms no longer shapeless but taking on the image of men and women; or the  _partiality_ of men and women; some nearly fully-formed; others arms, or hands, or faces only; many flowing between the contours of head, body and face – at times together, melting and spouting from one to another; or grotesque with multiple heads and numerous arms. Their only constant the gnashing, grating teeth within mouths opened as to yell but without sound; moaning, crying and wailing originating not from the beings themselves but invading from throughout the realm; and the endless hands reaching outward, grasping at the womens feet and legs and clothing; pulling them downward even as Diana and Egeria slash and slice and sever.

“Menalippe!” Diana calls into the depths, seeing nothing of her Aunt but a slightly risen, undulating surface where Menalippe had last stood.

Egeria speared one, two, four beings at once even as she cut down others by sword. “Diana, can you reach down and pull her free? I will fight off these....things while you search.” But for each creature rendered in half, three more surged upward. Diana, striking by the Sword of Zeus with one hand even as she sought for her aunt with her other, severed attackers cleanly but these did not perish but flowed into the whole, joining the mass to rise again – for how can anything in the land of the dead once again be killed? Quickly Diana, also, found herself pulled downward, fingers strong yet without substance ripping at her skirt, tearing against her legs; her hand cast into the tangle in search of Menalippe finding not her Aunt but the formless grip of collective souls seeking her downfall.

Within a moment Menalippe bursts forth to the left of her niece, appearing worn and battered from her unseen combat but eyes intense with determination. Knives flashing brightly even in this land of shadow, within two arced slashes she carves the grasping limbs overpowering Diana, splitting them from their mass and freeing her companion. Gaining her own stance, Menalippe attacks with all her furor, joining Diana and Egeria in fighting off these beings which both cannot die and are never-ending. Within the throbbing forms Diana begins to see shapes which appear familiar; but cannot be. The Germans she killed in the War; Amazons – her sisters – lost on the beach; innocent villagers choking from gas in the fields of Belgium; faces known but unknown; briefly, but clearly, the forms even take on the image of Steve. “ _These beings...these things....are they all that continues of the dead that have fallen by my hand? I am responsible for their fate? Is this suffering due to me?_ ” But she must continue to strike them down even as she questions her actions. Beside her, Egeria hesitates for no known reason; carefully targeting only a few specific creatures while others she disregards; or even, it appears, attempts to protect. Yet all continue to pull and lash, draining the warriors strength. Menalippe, also, wavers, frozen for a moment while she is once again drawn into the depths. Despite their strongest efforts, all three grow weakened and dazed; without hope; beyond expectation. In fighting an infinite enemy, the fight is never fair. An endless battle grants no victors.

A spear surges from above, connecting with the covetous shadows enveloping Menalippe and severing from their bulk the grasping shapes which.....immediately shrivel and sputter, not to rise again.

“Never let your guard down!”

A sheaf of arrows soar into the fight, each directed toward that enemy which is most threatening; every bolt finding its target which, again, fade and topple.

“You expect the battle to be fair?!”

In a flash of radiant ivory-orange, a figure appears yielding in each hand a sword, sweeping and arcing within the ill-formed void until nothing of the obscenity remains; one warrior shattering that which could not be defeated by the most powerful Amazons.

“The battle will never be fair!”

Exhausted but undefeated, in unity Diana; Menalippe; and Egeria look toward their victor; and as one exclaim:

“Antiope!?”

 


	22. Chapter 22

**22**

“Diana, Egeria – _MENALIPPE_ – how is it you come to be here? Have men returned to invade Themyscira? Have you been lost in the battle? Why have you not been judged worthy of Elysium?”

“Antiope!” Menalippe rushes toward her sister, greeting her not in the awkward embrace of the world of men, but in the trusting, intimate connection traditional among Amazons: Right hand to left shoulder, left hands clasped at the wrist in the faith that each offers herself unarmed as well as in memory of their enslavement; and by a sign of respect and unity with heads bowed, foreheads touching.

“Sister, Themyscira is safe. We are not among the dead. We have traveled into Hades on a journey....a mission of rescue.”

“You live? Thank the gods. I pray you have not entered into a fools journey on my behalf. In my death”, she looks toward Diana, “I secured our most precious blessing.” Approaching her Aunt, the two welcome one another in the same manner as all Amazons; but as their heads bow and touch, Antiope whispers: “Diana. The God Killer.”

“Yes, my Aunt. Now I understand.” Even as Egeria steps forward to greet her General, Antiope and Diana grasp hands until the final moment.

“I seek to restore wrongs that I have caused....an unnecessary death. Menalippe and Egeria accompany me although it is not their duty. I alone am responsible for my actions.”

“And what actions are these, niece? Does Ares still threaten the world of man, and all that is above?”

“No, I fulfilled the sacred duty of the Amazons and slayed the God of War; just as you trained me, Antiope. But my companion – Steve Trevor – was compelled into action that lead to his death only due to my mistakes. If not for my failure he would not have died. We are here to return him to his world.”

“That  man who brought the intruders? He is not worthy of you. Did Hippolyta agree to this folly?”

“She... understands. As I hope will you.”

“Diana, you are better than this. You have more to offer than placing yourself, along with Menalippe and Egeria in danger for the benefit of a mortal; a mortal that is now judged to the eternal hopelessness of the Asphodel Meadows. Look around you; there is no more 'Steve'; there are only lost and suffering souls with no purpose other than to obey the bidding of even the most minor gods of the Underworld. You must leave this place. Return from where you entered.”

“That way is destroyed, sister” offered Menalippe. “We cannot go back. But surely you are not condemned to this grey void?”

“The Judges honor me with a place in Elysium. I now know Diana has fulfilled her destiny and continues on the path for which she has been prepared. There is no more I can do.”

“We honor the gods in their wisdom. I have come to assure your sacrifice will be forever remembered and honored among all of Themyscira. You are mourned and missed by all. Without you at her side, as you always have been, Hippolyta feels a great loss. And I.....I wish to thank you. And to apologize I was not by your side when I was most needed....”

Antiope approaches her sister, grasping her by both shoulders, steadily gazing into her eyes. “My loss is inconsequential. I have trained you; and Diana; and Egeria and Philippus and Euobea and many others. Your place is now with them. Continue to honor Hippolyta and strengthen Themyscira. If you fulfill this duty, I can think of no higher tribute to my memory.”

“General....” Egeria awkwardly interjects, alert for attack, “all that reside here are....nothing more than forms and shadows....yet despite our best efforts we could not defeat their attack. How do you remain as yourself, as we all remember you; and vanquish these forces when our actions have little effect? Do the beings of this realm cower in the presence of one from Elysium?”

“No, all in the Underworld are equal. Only our judgments vary. The Asphodel Meadows consist of the lost. The horizon; the skies; the surface we stand on are not as they appear but only illusions necessary to comprehend a formless void. All who dwell here have been stripped of redemption but are cursed with the memory of hope. They seek relief in any way possible knowing release will never occur. But in you; in those who have not been judged; all possibilities continue to exist. In desperation they seek to drag you into their midst, to take from you what they most want and will present themselves as your greatest uncertainty; your hidden fear; your anger or hope or love; any feeling or passion they no longer posses in an effort to once again be whole. You would have never won the battle because you were fighting the opponent you perceived without; the true fight is within. A skilled enemy will always look for your weakness; and that is often not the weakness you believe it to be.”

“But you have no weakness, General.”

“No, that is not true. All my life I have trained for battle. Prepared for the return of Ares; or Hercules; or any men who believe it is their right; merely by reasoning that they are men; who will attempt to take from us all that they, by being men, can ravage and claim but never truly hold. That is my passion and purpose that the mass of the Asphodel Meadows seeks to take. My demons; the beings I see among the void; are always on the attack, searching to claim what I have trained myself to never again lose. So in their attacks, they only make me stronger. But each of you sees her own demons and fights her own battle. Only you can measure their effect not by defending what they most desire; but by committing to what they can no longer possess. But now we must leave; I may have weakened their efforts but they will soon recover. I can direct you as far as the marsh at the edge of the River Styx. There will be challenges but Charon can be bribed to return you to the surface.”

“I will not depart without Steve. It is my duty.”

Antiope turns toward her niece. “Among the realms of the Underworld all souls are confined to the place they have been judged; I was able to pass between Elysium and the Asphodel Meadows only because of my love for each of you, and by the connection of all Amazons. No soul that has been judged can leave the Underworld unless Hades himself sets him free. What you ask is impossible. If Hades learns I have crossed the barrier he will be outraged; just as if he learns mortals are wondering about his kingdom. We must find a way for you to exit; I must return to my realm; and we must avoid his wrath.”

“Perhaps Steve has not yet been judged? Antiope, will you lead us to the Theater of Judgment?”

“You have taken this too far. Forget this foolishness, Diana. Around you are nothing but lost, mindless souls no longer with identity or passion. All they were is gone. What remains – the forces that clawed and dragged and nearly overcame you – is the forsaken mass of lives misused. Even adrift within the whole, each knows the isolation of what may have been. It is sorrow and heartbreak that rises up, that sees in you all they have lost; they attack not in anger but by desperation.”

“No, Steve is not here. I can feel it.”

“This,” Menlippe began, “is unwise. We have granted you every consideration; Antiope herself has come to your aid. Only by the blessings of the gods did she appear to show us the way. Please accept the truth.”

“Diana, I fear my training has not only drawn from you your greatest strengths, but encouraged a misplaced determination. You must learn a victory can be gained by walking away from a battle just as readily as we engage in the fight.”

“General, the....surface is becoming unstable.: Egeria warns; “I believe it will rise up against us soon.”

“Menalippe, are you certain the way you entered is impassable?”

“It is collapsed under layers of stone. Egeria almost lost her life.”

“The entrance to the underworld by the Rivers is guarded by the most fearsome creatures of all Hades. I will accompany you through the Asphodel Meadows but am confined within the eternal realms. Without my help you must defeat or evade all challenges for you to depart. However along that way also lies the Theater of Judgment. Diana, will you abandon this recklessness if the Judges affirm this Steve is no longer of the world of man, but has passed into these realms?”

“I will not depart without knowing.”

“Then we must proceed. The void surrounding us gains strength; and Hades is ever aware of all that enter his kingdom.”

 

* * *

 

With Antiope in the lead, striking down at her left and right every being that arose to choke her path, the four advanced rapidly within the greyness; yet despite their progress the crossing appeared to have no end, even as around them the mass above, below and surrounding grew ever more active, rising and bursting forth as molten lava. In a massive thrust a frothing wall of disjointed limbs and headless faces erupts between Antiope and Menalippe, separating them from their companions. Egeria and Diana strike and spear repeatedly at the boundless forms; but again, with little effect as the talons and fingers gash into their legs and grasp at their bodies.

“Do not battle on their terms! Cling to that which brings you strength!” Antiope yells above the moaning, wailing mass. Yet Diana and Egeria continue to fight; as Amazons, is their strength not their courage; their skills; the ability to defeat any enemy?

Suspended above the battle, beyond view of the Amazons yet all within his sight, stands Hades, rashly commanding the souls under his power but heedless of the results.

“Be free of all else!” urges Antiope. “Do not fuel their desire!”

Diana and Egeria falter even as they strike wounds unbearable to any mortal enemy. In a moment, Egeria hesitates, distracted, reluctant in combat as if she has forgotten how to fight; then, she holds fast, dropping her spear while her right arm, still grasping her sword, hangs loosely at her side. Gazing among the forms; into their faces, their images, their illusions; she falls to her knees, immediately engulfed by the void.

“Egeria!” Diana screams; her voice drowned out among the raging, plaintive cries even as she fights with growing furor, single-minded against the violation that has claimed her companion; possibly her aunt; now, converging upon her and directed by the Lord of the Underworld himself. Towering above Diana, the god smiles arrogantly; self-pleased with the destruction he has initiated, savoring the souls he prepares to rip from their still mortal bodies.

“The child of the Amazons dares to enter my realm. Foolish girl. And you tempt a soul, already mine, to come to your aid? Such a disappointment. You may have prevailed over Ares, too tangled in his selfishness to understand the true abilities of the gods. But I possess no selfishness, hold no other intentions – for in the Underworld, all is already mine. And you, Diana, and your companions will not benefit from that lack of focus but languish in the power of a true God!”

From below and above; of the surface; the horizon; emerges a blackness beyond all pitch, flowing as water but composed only of shadow; a flood that sweeps and swells not by liquid but of despair. Dianas attention is drawn from endless void to the throbbing chasm where Egeria last stood; from the wall severing her from her family, to the smirking, sneering, leering god towering above.

“NO!! I am Diana, Princess of Themyscira! Daughter of Hippolya, Queen of the Amazons! I will not allow demonic powers to overcome courage born of resolve! I will shatter all you raise against me, and fight until none remain!” And with each strike of her sword; every slash of its blade; above the force of her shield and drive of her fists; the formlessness grows; the mass invades and devours and penetrates; screams resound and the moaning – ever, the ceaseless, sorrowful moaning, joined now by the laughter of Hades – demands. But among the discord, Diana hears; or possibly, feels; soft, still voices; gentle, unassertive yet possessing powers of their own:

“ _Fighting does not make you a hero”_

“ _Sometimes it takes others to recognize in us the strengths we can't see ourselves”_

“ _If someone loves you, they will give up everything they have”_

“ _You are stronger than you believe. You have greater powers than you know”_

“ _Sacrifice. That's what love does, Diana”_

“ _The greatest battle is within ourselves”_

“ _Those are demons that can't be overcome by force, only by understanding_ ”

“ _The question is, how can I be my best for all”_

“ _Once together, we will never be apart”_

“ _It's about what you believe. And I believe in love”_

“ _Always, love”_

“ _I love you.”_

Diana stands frozen; her weapons hanging idle. Monstrous fingers rip at her clothing; disembodied hands pull her downward; shapeless, corrupt, lustful desire surrounds her as a prison. Hades looks down with greed; craving; nearly slavering in expectation. Calmly, Diana places the Shield of Zeus on her back; sheaths her sword at her side; and, with face to the heavens and arms raised outwards, falls backward freely; willingly; into the morass. Immediately seized, the violation overtakes all, enveloping her...sinking...disappearing...buried...gone.

For a moment the surface erupts into unrelenting frenzy, blackness stirring and void alive; The Lord of the Underworld laughs perversely, uncontrollably; the barrier formed between Antiope and Menalippe; and Diana and Egeria falls, the foulness returning into itself. Antiope stands alone, having lost Menalippe within the quagmire; her twin swords raised against The Lord of the Underworld yet knowing against him, she has no strength.

“Pitiful. Hera will be pleased. No longer will this daughter of Hippolyta be of concern.”

All of Hades trembles. From beneath the churning chaos, a bluish-red light appears; softly, faintly rising from the depths as the flame of a long-burning candle, vibrant within but dimmed through its clouded surface. Amid the turbulent depths a quietness forms, calming the chaos not by force or compulsion but by conviction; a golden cast flooding from the centermost, reflecting not only the light radiating from its origin but itself taking on the aspects of an impenetrable shield, refracting within itself the red; blue; golden hues even while casting these same rays throughout the greyness. Unyielding to the formlessness which retreats before its resolve, the brilliance grows ever stronger as it approaches the surface, flooding the void with its brilliance; overwhelming the contorted hands that seek to rip and tear even as they open in expectation; transforming screaming mouths and gnashing teeth and hellish eyes into faces of hope.

Within his Underworld, amid the twilight and pitch and gloom, Hades had never before known such light; or among his imprisoned – not even from those of Elysium – such... _warmth_. Uncertain of what this troubling radiance and uncomfortable expectation could mean; or why it continued to spread through the depressing void he has cherished for...forever; he reached into his darkest depths to rouse powers seldom used and set his kingdom back in order. Reaching forward, spreading his arms until they encompass all of his realms and pull them, once again under his control; darkness sweeps from his fingers to drown all that had been illuminated; yet from the void the golden red-blue flares before him, freed from any malevolence or fear or doubt, in an instant enlightening all the Underworld; for a moment diminishing Hades, himself.

“I AM Diana of Themyscira, Daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. I release all that has bound me to accept my true purpose. The powers I yield are not proclaimed by right, but determined by choice. I do not demand reverence, but appeal by compassion. I bear for those who cannot. I stand for those who fall. My strengths are not those of the ancient gods of mystery; but new truths to bring understanding and light. And I hereby assert my will to claim all that is good and right and just.”

Although not changed in size or shape or form, Diana rises above the confusion of all that are lost and hovers before the God of the Underworld; challenging him not in battle, but in sympathy; weapons set aside, reaching out with both her hands in understanding over aggression.

“The Kingdom of Hades does not extend into the souls of the living. All beings righteously judged are under your direction; but you possess no authority over my companions, myself, or whom I seek. Allow us to fulfill our journey, retrieve my friend and depart. No further disturbance will we cause to your realms.”

Recovered from his brief bewilderment, Hades had regained his dispassionate self-assurance.

“You have no authority among the Underworld, girl” the god laughs; although not as readily; or easily; as before; “and no immunity. Whoever enters into my kingdom must accept the retribution _I_ choose.”

“I do not wish to harm you.”

“Oh, the conceit. We'll see who harms who.” And with a breath resounding of drumfire, the cries of a billion souls whose substance had been cleaved from their being yet choked to endure even more – for Hades was wrenching this strength from the remnants of all sentenced to eternal suffering – he drew to his most majestic form, raising his arms as if drawing something unseen toward him, and in a venomous laugh thrust his collected energies toward Diana. Inky tendons writhe through the air, pitch-black coils not of fire or lightning or the weapons of Zeus or even of Ares, but serpentine tendrils which vanquished light even as they thrashed forward; countless slithering lights of darkness converging upon Diana as unwoven threads of a tapestry.

As the forces snaked forward, she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and with arms crossed before her chest pushed into the oncoming barrage. The darkness which struck Dianas bracers - forces that all beings – and some gods – had learned to fear – could not bear the radiance, the empowerment, of Dianas defense. Instantly the dark coils turned back upon themselves, intensified and directed toward their origin. In a flash of blue-black light, Hades feels the full force, stumbling as the initial impact pushes him back in a massive surge of energy; subsequent waves nearly driving him to his knees.

“What...is this? How....? Who lends you this power? Which gods do you serve that dare to defy me?”

“What I serve is not anger, but acceptance. I draw not upon reaction but understanding. What I believe requires a strength of heart that you can never obtain, nor defeat.”

“All will one day be defeated, intruder. All end here. You will not escape my realms, alive or dead; judged or not. I am the Lord of the Underworld and of all that exist within my realms; but there are others, more terrifying, that serve me; others far less merciful than I, before whom none prevail.” The god turns to depart, around him forming a clouded fog of duplicity; almost fully cloaked, he looks back upon Diana:

“Be certain, girl: I will return with your death.”

 


	23. Chapter 23

**23**

Antiope, watching her niece as she settles gently to the surface, rushes to her side; in awe of all she has witnessed but surprised by none. “Diana, are you harmed? Is there anything in which I can...help?”

“Menalippe and Egeria, we must find them.” Diana reaches below the murmuring surface in search of her companions, but no hands reach to grasp hers; nor do any rip or claw or tear. She does feel the caress of countless souls stretching to press against her fingers; to meet her touch.

“They...are gone. I could not save them. Only as I understood....just as I surrendered all and held faith only in what is just and fair and truly important – as I believed all you taught me, my Aunt – I did not think that would lead to the loss of others. Antiope, have I failed again?”

“Diana, I saw Menalippe disappear into the abyss. As she fell, she looked into my eyes and I know she, also, surrendered her burdens. Those below had nothing to feed upon. She has not suffered.”

“Egeria, also, appeared to recognize what the demons were seeking and let herself free. Perhaps she also has found peace.”

“We must remember each of us must find our own way. Sometimes we are together; other times unaccompanied; but the path is ours alone.”

“Yes, Aunt. I have been told the same by....someone very wise.”

“We must go. Hades does not make false threats. He will be back, and with him untold evils.”

The two keeled to say their goodbyes and pray their lost companions would be judged worthy of the Heroes of Elysium. Egerias duty had been fulfilled; she had protected the Daughter of Hippolyta. Menalippe had entered into Hades in selflessness and sacrifice.  We ask the gods that she be reunited with her sister.

As they rise, the Amazons, Aunt and niece, are bathed in the crisp green light of the early spring. Before them, as a fog present but not; near yet distant, steps a being delicate, graceful, beautiful; from the mist emerges a woman younger than Diana but displaying the sadness and burdens of many years.

“I, Persephone, Goddess of Spring, know your sorrows and understand your loss. Hades believes he, alone, holds power in the Underworld. He fails to recognize when he forced me to become his wife, to dwell among these realms of darkness and sorrow and death, he surrendered absolute rule.”

With a stroke of her hand, the Queen of the Underworld breaches the undulating surface of the shapeless void which is the Asphodel Meadows; creating edges which divided into a crack; a split; a rupture until within the void; itself nothingness; forms a cavity. In a sweep of her arm, from the opening rise the bodies of Menalippe and Egeria; motionless, at rest but not dead. The goddess gently lays them beside the breach, itself healed; and with a single breath directed toward the women, both awake in a gasp.

“To be torn from the abundance and promise of all that is above; to lose the light and the life and the hope is almost too much to bear. When captive in this hell for half the year I only wait for the time I can return to that which I love. In most concerns of these realms I do not care; I only wait. But Hades so easily forgets by forcing me to sit at his side, he also forfeits to me equal powers. To use these powers for redemption; for renewal; for hope; is their greatest purpose. It is as you say, Daughter of Hippolyta: To bring new truths; to bring understanding and light. To draw upon these new strengths, greater strengths than the gods of old. The new gods of light.”

Diana kneels before the immortal. “Thank you, Dearest Goddess, for your redemption.”

“Stand, Diana. It is not you who should be bowing toward me, but I who should acknowledge your strength. For time unknown I have endured the months I must remain within this desolation; by rule of Zeus separated from all that grows, from all that lives. My mother weeps; the earth is fallow; I knew no other existence. You, Daughter of the Amazons, have shown me the gods of old know only to decree and demand; the darkness of Hades is but a reflection of the envy and resentment present in all those of Olympus. While I will never fully escape these realms, I can illumine their depths. As you, my child, will deliver light to those above.”

“Goddess Persephone, I have brought you this gift. It is not the flowers of above that grow and live; but they are flowers that will never die. They were given to me with great love. I hope they bring you joy.” Reaching into the small kit at her side, Diana gently removes a garland of wine-red silk roses arranged among stems and vines of vibrant green. The laurel she had, just a day earlier, carefully separated from the Christmas dress Abigail had made for her; the treasures sewn by love; given through courage; and now, offered in honor.

Persephone accepts the bouquet and lifts it to her face. Holding the roses at her nose, she inhales, a smile forming on her lips although these flowers, made of silk and not of life, should have no smell; or possibly, only the scent of peppermint and lavender. Within the eyes of the Goddess, Diana believes, she sees a dampening mist, swelling and collecting until two single tears fall to the surface, briefly bursting forth into two tiny green seedlings only to immediately wither and fade upon the grey void. But as Persephone continues to be encircled by fog, perhaps this is only an illusion.

“My daughters, you must depart the Underworld before _He_ returns. I have no desire to bear his temper if it can be avoided. I will return you from whence you came. Antiope; your place is in Elysium, is it not?”

“Yes, Goddess.”

“Return there immediately. Diana, are you and your companions prepared to regain the surface?”

Diana looks at Menalippe and Egeria, both drawn and wearied but appearing secure and assured.

“Goddess, my aunt and my friend must be returned to Themyscira. But I must remain.”

“That is not possible. His temper is... _unrelenting_. Once wronged, he will not cease until He has achieved his intention. There can be no reason that you remain here.”

“I am sorry, Dearest Goddess, but I must complete my duty. I have embarked upon this journey to right that which is wrong, and in duty of love; the greatest reason of all. I must rescue my companion from whatever fate awaits. If, as Antiope says, he has not yet been judged there may still be time.”

“Love and light and understanding are our most powerful strengths. That, I see, you have learned for yourself; and have re-awakened in me. Hades will not expect you to travel into his innermost realms; seek what you have come to accomplish, but once you have your answer do not wait but immediately cross to the ferry and direct Charon to remove you to the surface. If he doubts, remind him of who sits beside his master. Your companions will be returned; to prevent interference from any of His Furies I will escort this soul of Elysium back into her realm. We must depart.”

In turn, each Amazon approaches Diana in farewell. Arms clasped; foreheads together; all depart reluctantly but in new-found realization and acceptance:

“I shall tell my sister; your mother; not to worry. That her daughter is grown beyond her fears and into her greatest hopes. Diana, she will ever carry her burden; that is the duty of motherhood. Remember her concern comes not from doubt, but from faith that all she has believed you to be, the child she formed from clay because she loved you above all; what she created beyond all expectation has risen above her greatest aspiration. Yet you are always, her child. We love you.”

“If needed, know I shall always remain at your side. Today I have seen you no longer require my protection. The child I sought to keep from stumbling among the rocks and bloodying her knees now stands forth to protect me. The girl who could not wait to become a warrior has become the greatest warrior of all. May the gods always bless you, Diana.”

“Diana. You no longer doubt. Among the stories of your childhood, Hippolyta told you of the combat she and I withstood, and you admired our bravery. But these battles were not of fearlessness or daring; they were to defend Themyscira and protect all we value. I trained you to become the mightiest warrior among all Amazons; yet in the battles before you, remember your strength comes not from your abilities or your skills or your courage; our true strength is found only in what we most cherish. I am honored, my niece.”

And by the stretch of her arm, as a leaf settles gently to earth, Persephone, the Goddess of Spring, Queen of the Underworld, conveyed Menalippe and Egeria to the world above.

“Antiope, I now accompany you to Elysium. Thank you, Diana of Themyscira, Daughter of Hippolyta, for clearing the darkness that has shrouded my soul. Be vigilant in your journey. Hades is a devious and dangerous foe; yet he, as all men, are easily blinded by what they do not understand. Come, being of Elysium.”

And all that is Persephone; all that is verdant and green and alive; enveloped Antiope as the two disappeared into the mist.

 

* * *

 

In a journey of countless steps but in far less time than would be expected; as if the gods themselves – or possibly the beings forming all of Asphodel - had hastened her crossing; Diana entered the Temple of Hades. There were no guards, or barriers, or as she could see no weapons of attack or defense; but for the ever-present souls of the lost, the galleries appear abandoned. There is no need for precaution, for who would dare enter the home of the Lord of the Underworld?

Yet beyond the aberrant stillness lay the faintest of speech: “And so, we, the Judges of the Underworld and of all that cross from life into death; or, as it has been determined, from life into the existence that neither lives nor dies but continues until his worth is unquestioned; resolve that you, Steve Trevor, are granted the responsibility to ease the burdens of those you have failed; amend your actions among those you have wronged; and always without direct guidance or interference in what mortals consider their free will, return to their appointed path those whose lives you have caused to stray from their journey.”

Upon hearing the words 'Steve Trevor', Diana races toward the voices;

“Wait! He cannot be judged! It is my failure – my responsibility! I accept the judgment in his place!”

Running down one hallway into the dankness of another; passing through corridor and passage and courtyard until she is disoriented and lost Diana wonders with purpose but without direction, knowing where she must be is within her grasp, but unable to secure that which she most desperately seeks.

“So, the _Daughter of the Amazons_ scurries about my Palace, alone and confused.”

Looming above all, in shadow that sharpens even as it shrouds, Hades awaits. Beside him stand those who claim allegiance to the Lord of the Underworld; the dead, the undead, and the bringers of death. To his left stands Nyx, goddess of the night. Born of Chaos and mother the the gods of doom; destruction; pain; retribution and strife, Zeus himself is believed to fear her wrath. Beside her Thanatos, personification of death that comes suddenly, without warning and brother to the Keres and their lust for slaughter and disease. To the right of Hades, Moros, he who drives mortals toward their inevitable destruction, stands beneath the three Erinyes, winged goddesses of vengeance; at their feet scramble demons and beasts horned and fanged and barbed; creatures of fire and agony and anguish. Above all fly the Keres, female demons who flock toward the spoils of death; slicing at bodies in their thirst for blood; reaping souls from the wounded, gathering the lost for their Master. Massing in untold number, seeking death beyond the bounds of will or fate; the spirits of sicknesses and evil and curse.

“Such a captivating show you have provided. It is rare to have in our midst a being possessed with such.... _life_. Your dubious attachment to 'compassion' and 'feeling' and....the concept weighs in my throat....' _love'...._ will not help among those that possess no heart. We shall strip those failings from your soul and violate all you hold dear. You will see there is nothing of life, but death.”

“This is unnecessary. You may still depart.”

“It is too late to seek pity, girl. Arise!”

Flying and crawling and lunging forth, all of hell surges toward Diana. Affirming her stance; strengthening her posture; and centering her resolve, The Princess of Themysciara removes the shield from her back and raises it before her in defense.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**24**

“Stop.”

A shimmering green glow arises in front of Hades, blinding his will, battling his darkness. Though not directly impeding the horrifying multitude, all nevertheless pause in surprise and disbelief.

“Persephone, my Queen. This issue is not worthy of your attention.”

“All within these realms are worthy of my attention, just as you desired”, replies the Goddess. “You cannot welcome me at your side, yet not accept my rule. In your appetite and lust, have you not understood that, by your trickery that makes me your wife, all that is yours, is also mine?”

“This is foolishness. I am the God of the Underworld!”

“And I am Goddess not only of this world; but of all life that springs forth above. Disperse your hordes before I tire of their grotesque presence.”

But Hades is not only lord of death; he is also master of duplicity.

“I did not know ..these are your beliefs. Your grace and beauty has so distracted me that I have failed to grant all that is yours. If I had known before ...if only had you spoken so earnestly ...we will have much time to talk of this once this small matter is concluded.”

“Fool. To take from a girl all she cherishes, in the desperate belief you can then control all she is as a woman. How little you know. Cease this arrogance immediately; allow Diana to fulfill her duty or I shall rise to the surface never to return.”

“Such an empty threat,” the god smirks. “You have eaten of the foods of the Underworld and are forever tied to my realms and bound to my side.”

“Then I will perish and be entombed on Delos for eternity, forever removed from your hell. But favor your kingdom while you can; without my guidance, or that of Diana, the light that has been cast today, already spreading among those of the surface and even within the borders of Elysium, will soon extinguish your darkness. Ares is not the only god who can be destroyed.”

“I am the God of all that is Death!”

“And I am the Goddess of All that is Life. Without growth and renewal that gives to all, there can never again be death. Without life, one day you will rule over an empty kingdom, alone and forgotten. And, husband, is that not your greatest fear? To possess the ultimate power; but over none? Pathetic.”

The gods and demons and lifelessness of the Underworld waver between Diana and their Lord; savoring the one yet in fear of the other. Never before had they known Persephone, usually so meek and somber, wield the powers all knew she could possess; and in deference to their master, despair of the day she would embrace all that is hers.

Hades is never conquered, for none can escape death; but he can be humbled to approach by our measures rather than his own. Diminished, his wrath temporarily weakened (as he even then thought of ways he could regain advantage), in a sigh that first drew toward him all beasts and burdens of the Underworld to only, upon exhalation, return them back into the depths and dark corners and pitch until only he, Persephone and Diana remained; Hades turned toward his consort.

“What do you wish, wife?”

“What I wish – to live again among all that is abundant and fruitful – you cannot provide. What I ask is that Diana be allowed to complete her journey without interference or obstruction; and she, and who she seeks, return to their world without hindrance. Who, Daughter of Hippolyta, is this you seek?”

“Steve, Goddess. Steve Trevor.”

From a doorway only steps away but until now unseen, beyond the blurred murkiness of the Underworld which passes for air and among the few glimmers of light allowed to illuminate the ever-present dim; almost as if looking into the depths of unclouded seas; steps a man; or perhaps, within the world of men, one slightly above average.

“Yeah, I'm here. What kind of dog-and-pony show do you expect from me now?”

 

* * *

 

“Allies gather at her side, sister” reported Hades. “If she were unaided, we; or even I, alone, had been provided the opportunity; would have certainly broken her. But at every step she has assistance.”

Uncomfortably, Hades explained to Hera his failure to stop Diana, within his own Kingdom; and that simply _her presence_ has now unsettled the balance the Gods of Olympus have dictated from time immemorial.

“So you say, brother. What I see is this girl who has entered your realms without your knowledge, accompanied by two mortals who then received help from a soul that you should have long ago secured. She defeated – no, that is not correct...she _defiled_ the beings of the Asphodel Meadows by infecting them with the perception of _compassion_ and _hope_ ; and then....”

“Hera, I did not foresee....”

“And _then_ , she draws Persephone to her favor; docile, yielding Persephone who would have powers no stronger than a sower of seeds – a Goddess _proclaimed_ , not _professed_ \- if you in your uncontrolled passion had not plucked her from the world in which she was harmless and content, deceiving her to remain within your Kingdom. This Child of the Amazons empowering her with perversive thoughts of 'fortitude” and 'resolution' so that even now in the worlds above and below, there is talk of _'New Gods_ ' that rule from light rather than by command? Is this correct? Oh, and in so doing, the Daughter of Hippolyta has also fulfilled her purpose in collecting this man she has set herself to recover, therefore strengthening Athena's claim that a mortal is worthy of Olympian interference? Is there anything I have omitted?”

The Lord of the Underworld – shielded within the blackness of his realms but disturbingly obvious amid the radiant alabaster and ivory that is the refuge of the Gods; eases forward upon the bench and leans toward his sister.

“What you do not know is that she is calling upon something I; and I would say, you or any Olympian – cannot possess. Within all our powers, we lack that which makes those of the world unique; the reason, or possibly the failing, in the creation of Zeus. Their yearning, aspiration, empathy; not only among men but shared among all beings of the Earth – this, sister, is not only something the Gods do not possess - but may never _understand_.”

Hera, the wife of Zeus, sweeps backward in laughter:

“You, the Master of Deception, have been deceived! How could mankind hold onto these vague ideals if, as they have shown throughout their wretched existence, embrace only pride and arrogance and self-interest. The other creatures of Earth; perhaps they possess higher values, or carry a greater purpose than what 'men', in their brief moments of life, have set themselves to achieve. But all of mankind, greater than we? Laughable.”

“I do not claim to understand what Diana has wrought. But I do see within every soul; those living and even those that I have stripped of all essence; there remains greater potential than should be possible. It seems to stem from a choice each can make, not a charge we impose. Sister, I believe the Daughter of the Amazons can be defeated only by the fall of mankind, itself.”

 


	25. Chapter 25

**25**

“Steve!“ Standing before Diana whole, embodied, unchanged was the man she thought she'd lost in the explosion above the German airfield.

“Diana, what...”

She raced toward her companion, enfolding him in a unyielding embrace – the Goddess, truly, did not know her own strength – then stepped back enough to look him in the face but not remove her hands from his shoulders.

“Thanks to the gods, you have been judged to exist in the Elysium fields! You remain as you were, just as Antiope!”

“The elisei-what-ieum fields?”

“The realm for all those who were good and just; for those who died as heroes.”

“Diana, what are you doing here? You're not.... _dead_...are you?”

Steve glanced at Persephone, maintaining her presence until she could be certain Diana was safe and her duty fulfilled; but to Steve, she was yet another god who may, or may not, be of more mischief than good.

“I have come to rescue you.” Diana stated. “Despite how you have been judged, I will find a way for you to return. I will not allow you to pay for my mistakes; if necessary, I will take your place.”

“Yeah, about the judging, I'm not really certain what's happened or where I belong. I haven't exactly been sent to the 'land of the heroes'. And the dying...well, that's not really true, either.”

“Did you not die in that aircraft? I saw it explode, there was...nothing remaining...”

“Sure, about that. I was ready to die – exploded the bombs and all – when, I don't know how to explain it....”

Within a flash of silvery-blue, a Goddess appears before them.

“Great, gods and goddesses. Seen 'em all. Well, a lot of 'em. Big barrel of fun, they are.”

Diana, who had a moment earlier slightly stepped away from Steve yet remained close enough to keep her hand on his arm, dropped her touch and looked at Steve in amazement.

“You have witnessed the gods within a barrel?”

“What is this interference with the journey of Steve Trevor? Is Hades attempting to overstep his bounds? This man is under my protection and none shall interfere.”

“Yeah, just about like that. Hi, Athena.”, Steve casually replies.

“Steve, you do not address Athena in that manner!” Diana kneels before the Olympian. “Great Goddess, I am Diana, daugh...”

“...Daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. I am well aware of your presence and the connection between you and this man. A connection I personally have accepted to uphold, as in you both I see more than either of you can imagine. Rise and stand before me.”

Steve reaches to help Diana stand. “Steve, this is Athena, Daughter of Zeus, Goddess of...”

“Oh, we go way back, Diana. What with her snatching me from death, taking me to the land of the gods, introducing me to her family and all. But no need to go into that now.” Besides, Athena’s owl, perched as before on her shoulder, continued to glare suspiciously at Steve.

Once again, Diana steps back, amazed. “Are not the Olympians gone? Slain by Ares?”

“Daughter of Hippolyta”, Athena announces, “the Gods have not forsaken our creations. When Ares threatened to destroy all in his attempt to show he was greater than any, we determined only by allowing him to believe he had succeeded would he then open himself to defeat. My father believed only by misguiding him into your confidence, could you then subdue him. We do not wish for any Olympian to perish; and we regret you were unable to see past the arrogance of Ares and into his essence as an Olympian, and our brother. But that was when your eyes were not yet opened and you, yourself, were guided not by wisdom but only by spirit. Through the continual balance of the two will you fulfill your journey.”

“I have made many mistakes. If I had known...”

“It is now done. Steve Trevor, the Judges have determined your path?”

“I guess. I don't really understand what I'm...”

“It will be revealed. Even we, the Gods of Olympus, cannot know the ultimate destiny of men. That is for each of you to discover. You, Steve Trevor, have been given an opportunity to make more of your life than what has been granted any mortal. Diana, you must follow your path to wherever you are guided. Know that journey may not direct you as you wish; but if followed with belief in yourself and in all that you hold close, that path will always be true. I will be watching over you both.”

And, as with most gods, Athena departed as quickly as she arrived.

“Diana,” Persephone spoke, “it is time to return. I will conduct you to Themyscira.”

“Yes, I must honor my mother by returning to her; to tell of what has happened. That Antiope rests in Elysium, and the purpose of the Amazons, to bring hope to all, has now been delivered even into Hades.”

“And will send this 'Steve' back to his country”, the Goddess continued. “Is that the ancient land of the English;  _ London _ , I believe mankind has named it? Or perhaps the  _ 'New _ York _ ',  _ where the English have found a new home?”

Steve stepped forward and looked Persephone in the eye; still anxious in the presence of any Olympian, but with the importance of his message briefly overcoming any fear. “No, I stay with Diana. We are together.“

“Steve, no man can remain on Themyscira. My mother; the Senate; Athena herself would not allow it. My greatest wish is that I would find you, that those moments on the German airfield would not be our last; but our time cannot be in Themyscira. I will find you in London, or this 'New York', or wherever you go, just as I found you in Hades. But I must first return home. If Goddess Persephone did convey you to Themyscira, and you were forced to leave, how would you find your way back to the land of man?”

“I'll figure it out when we get there.” Steve takes Diana's hand into his own. “I'll not let go of you again.” He turns toward Persephone. “So Goddess.... _Paradise Island_.”

 

* * *

 

When first snatched from the world he knew to a realm he believed exists only in myth, Steve's passage had felt purposeful, guided, protected. As gods experience time differently than mortals, Athena had transported Steve instantaneously from the exploding plane to the refuge of the Gods. When Persephone raised her hands toward the heavens, however, the image that entered Steve’s mind was of a leaf, gently separating from its branch and drifting among the breezes until it settles to earth and he was unable to judge if the journey from Hades to Themyscira would be experienced as seconds or days; weeks or a moment. All he was certain of, alongside Diana no amount of time would be enough.

Diana was concerned. From her earliest memories she had viewed time as flexible, slowing her perceptions to match what drew her attention or speeding through what she found of little interest. It wasn't until she had begun lessons with her tutors that she realized others did not seem to hold this ability; that to the Amazons – and now she knew, apparently all in the world of men – time is a constant that cannot be shaped to one's desires, but if allowed; as many men do; can itself become a mans master. But now she had lost track of the extent through which she and Steve passed; unable to judge when they were, what had come before and would next appear. For the journey that began as a falling leaf suddenly and violently shifted, as if the leaf had been snatched in mid-air, torn from its path and vengefully thrust into a whirling vortex. “Is this how men pass through time?” She thought. “Helpless to its whims, unable to determine or guide their own extent? This must be why they need the 'watch' to tell them what to do.”

In a flash of sickening violet-green, Steve and Diana found themselves returned to the earth, clouded skies above and dusty pavement beneath their feet. But this was not the verdant and pristine paradise of Themyscira they expected; nothing of the landscape and surroundings were familiar to Diana and within their view nothing took the form of paradise; but possibly, another version of hell. They found themselves among ruins; not the ruins of war, but of antiquity.

“Steve, where are we? Do you know this place?”

“Maybe, Diana. I've seen photos...that looks like the Colosseum....and over there, ancient ruins...I think we're in Rome. But the cars, the way people are dressed, most of the men, groups of women, and every boy in black and grey....it's not like anything I've seen before.”

“Steve, something isn't right....”

A streetcar passed by, its sides bearing posters showing disembodied hands yielding hammers striking hot metal; others of a single man or woman, one arm raised in defiance. Windows, or entire walls of buildings, plastered with broadsides illustrating marchers parading in endless lines, the leaders carrying flags highlighting images of an eagle, wings outstretched; of the profile of a single man, an insolent and threatening expression on his face and in some, wearing a rounded helmet. Most disturbing, images of a white skull bursting from a black background, between it's teeth a knife; and the words ' _Me ne frego_ '.

“That sign...Steve, it says 'I do not give a damn.' What does it mean?”

Among a crowd assembled for some type of rally, three of the black-shirted men had noticed Steve and Diana. Pointing in their direction and alerting their companions, the gang rushed toward them,  frenzied passion reflected upon their faces. The crowd's attention drawn elsewhere, their gathered mass continued it's fanatical cheer of ' _Il Duce! Il Duce!'._

'Yeah, I think we have bigger problems than that.”

 

* * *

 

“And now,” Hera contentedly said to herself, “We shall see just what fortitude this Daughter of The Amazons holds.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

_**_ The conclusion of 'Wonder Woman: Hell Hath no Fury'; _ ** _

_**Diana and Steve will return in continuation of their journey - the Ending of the Beginning.** _

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Diana's origin story is unfinished. We know she entered into Man's World to fulfill the sacred duty of the Amazons; she met and lost someone who helped her discover unknown strengths; then she is left questioning and without direction. One hundred years later she is accepted as a super hero. This is the start of that journey she was compelled to take in those 100 missing years.


End file.
